


A Leap of Faith

by dianatuna



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianatuna/pseuds/dianatuna
Summary: With only weeks before the Potter-Weasley wedding, Hermione Granger opens her door late one night to find Harry Potter. Takes place 2 years after the Battle of Hogwarts, canon-compliant.





	1. Something Borrowed

In a quiet street lined with rather large houses, the silence of the night was interrupted by a loud and resounding  _crack_  that echoed all the way down to the street. A man with unruly dark hair was now standing underneath one of the lampposts, breathing hard and blinking at his surroundings. He worried that the sound of his Apparation had broken the night's peace, but no curtains were drawn nor were there lights flickering to life in the upstairs windows. After a moment, he crossed the street briskly towards Number 497, where he was glad to hear the slightly muffled sounds of a television coming through the living room window. The path toward the front door was rather long, giving Harry Potter time to take in the house's appearance. It consisted of two storeys; its red brick façade lined with immaculate glass windows that reflected the streetlamps lining the road. Bushes dotted with little white roses filled the sizeable garden out front, and in the middle stood a little birdbath complete with tiny stone dwarf figures.

Harry raised his hand to ring the doorbell. In no time at all, a high familiar voice called out from behind the door. "Who is it?"

"'Tis I, Harry Potter! Chosen One and the Dark Lord's Destroyer! I have come to seek the venerable Lady Hermione's aid, and pray that she grace me with her presence!"

It opened a crack seconds later, and a brown eye appeared, peering at him carefully. "Harry?"

"My lady! I am honoured—  _honoured—_ to be standing upon your venerable porch and seeing you in your venerable polka-dot pajamas—"

"What is Harry Potter's favourite dessert?" she interrupted briskly.

"Treacle tart," Harry answered promptly; flashing what he thought was a winning smile.

After a moment or two, the door opened wider and Harry grinned at the bushy-haired girl looking at him through the gap between the door and the doorjamb. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and indeed, pajamas riddled with polka dots.

"Harry!" Hermione Granger exclaimed, looking relieved but thoroughly surprised at the sight of him standing on her doorstep. She opened the door fully now. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to see you, of course," Harry said cheerfully, kissing her cheek. "Don't really get to do that often now that you're working full-time at the Ministry."

Still looking thoroughly bewildered, Hermione stepped aside to let him into the dark foyer. With the light of the television coming from the living room, it was then he noticed that she had her wand clutched tightly in her hand. Raising his eyebrows, he gave her a quizzical look as she locked the door behind her. "Something wrong, Hermione?"

"Just a precaution. I put up wards around the house to let me know if someone's approaching," Hermione explained. "I know it's not as dangerous as it used to be, but it's not exactly a time for social calls, is it? It's half past ten, Harry."

She had a point. Harry looked towards the television in the living room, where a documentary on what looked like ancient Egyptian tombs still blared. Hermione shut off the television set and motioned for Harry to follow her deeper into the house, flicking the hall lights on as she went. Harry trailed after her, looking around in interest. He had never been inside Hermione's house before. They had always preferred to meet somewhere in wizarding London, if not at the Burrow.

The hall was lined with many photos that seemed to be arranged in chronological order. The first few photos showed a brown-eyed baby girl, smiling widely with only two or three teeth. Another of the same baby in a bright pink dress, her hands outstretched towards her dark-haired mother who appeared to be laughing with delight as Hermione took her very first steps. Further down the hall was Hermione as a toddler, her arms stretched up above her like a superhero as her father lifted her over his head. There were too many photos taken at various awarding ceremonies. Somewhere towards the second half of the line was Hermione as Harry knew her. There she was, standing on Platform 9 and ¾, where she was wearing a huge smile with her brand new school robes;  _Hogwarts, A History_ held tightly in one hand.

Shaking his head fondly at the memory of her unceremoniously entering his and Ron's train compartment a long time ago, Harry forged on, following the sound of her footsteps as they went deeper into the house.

The later pictures told a different story. Photos of Hermione were fewer and more spaced out in time. The pictures taken of her parents at different countries gave off a sense of loneliness. It could not have been clearer that Hermione had stopped spending much time with her family ever since she had started at Hogwarts, even during the breaks. He looked at Hermione and her parents standing under the Eiffel Tower. This was one of the last few pictures of them together, looking carefree and happy. The rest showed varied levels of sad smiles and strained expressions, Hermione's most prominent of all. There were no pictures of her in her seventh year; that had been the year Mr. and Mrs. Granger had been led to believe that they had no daughter.

All of the photos were, up to this point, stationary; but movement from one of the very last frames caught his eye. Upon closer inspection, he realized that it was a photo of Hermione and her parents at her Hogwarts graduation, where all three of them were beaming widely at the camera. Every now and then her parents would wave, smile, and wipe happy tears from their eyes. With around a dozen medallions hanging upon her neck (they gave her so many awards, she had to take some off during the ceremony for fear of suffocation; something he and Ron still tease her about) she was wearing a wreath of laurel leaves (as tradition for each class's top student) in her hair and ceremonial robes made especially for the occasion; and even Harry, who did not care much for clothes, thought it was worth finishing his education just to wear them. They were of deep obsidian, with the Hogwarts crest stitched perfectly into the front. Crimson and gold trim circled the sleeves and the collar, as well as the hem. It wasn't the robes' appearance so much as its symbolism that appealed to Harry. Owning one of these meant that he had finished his magical education through normal means, that he, like almost everyone in Wizarding Britain, had finished school at Hogwarts.

He had not been able to face returning for his final year. He knew that he had once sought solace in its halls, that it was the first home he ever knew. Too many things had happened within it, and the battle that occurred there almost two years ago was just one time too many. He would not have been able to last a day without missing the people he used to walk the corridors with, many of them dead because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. His mind would keep reliving that last duel if he sat in the Great Hall for too long. And so, he decided to forgo going back to Hogwarts, relieved that Ron had not wanted to go back as well.

Of course, dropping out of school meant that he and Ron never received their NEWTs. Harry had worried that he would find it difficult finding a job, but it turns out he needn't have worried about it all. All the witches and wizards he had approached for work insisted that defeating the most evil wizard of the age easily outranked a handful of mangy old NEWTs. It was yet another mark of how different Harry's life was to most wizards. Destroying Tom Riddle and pieces of his soul constituted as his end-of-year exams; and apparently, he had received an 'Outstanding'.

This impressive little feat had apparently caused everyone to decide that Harry was qualified to take on any profession he chose to pursue. The Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic had offered to take him without training at all. Every single Quidditch team in the league had sent him letters, all declaring that he could replace any one of their players should he decide to join them. Departments in the Ministry sent him job offers almost daily; all of them insisting that his true calling lay in being an Obliviator or an Unspeakable. It seemed as if everyone wanted 'the Dark Lord's Destroyer' to themselves. Quite overwhelmed by the number of requests and all too forward advances, he had taken up the Auror Department's offer, with the condition that he be trained and tested just like the other recruits.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice broke him out of his revelry. Harry had stopped right in front of her graduation photo, staring at it blankly. She walked back towards him, turning to look at it. With an understanding smile, she pulled his arm and continued leading him further down the hall.

"In here."

Harry found himself in a large kitchen, bright and cozy. Gesturing for Harry to take one of the stools lined up along the counter, Hermione retrieved two large mugs from one of the cabinets and proceeded to make tea for both of them.

"Why are you  _really_  here, Harry?" she asked, filling the mugs with hot water from her wand.

"Ginny wants those earrings you promised to lend her," Harry said, looking at her slyly as he added, "you know, the ones Krum sent you."

"Oh! That's right, I  _did_  tell her I'd lend her those for the wedding," she said, now placing a tea bag in each mug.

"You told us they were from your parents," he accused.

"Well, of course I did. You know perfectly well how Ron would have reacted if he found out it was from Viktor, Harry," she rolled her eyes. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

"Unfortunately, he was in the room when Ginny told me. You should have seen him— he choked on his mead and was on all fours by the time we decided to sort him out ourselves. He wanted to charge up here, but we convinced him that it was better for me to be the one to go. Can't have the two of you in another row this close to the wedding, can we?" Harry smiled at her, amused. "I'm sorry that I had to come this late, but Ron insisted that I should go up here and 'give you a talking to' anyway."

"Let's have it then." Hermione said, eyeing him skeptically. Harry merely shook his head, laughing.

"You and I both know I'm not stupid enough to try and give you a talking to about Krum, Hermione. I only came to shut Ron up so he wouldn't bother Ginny," he told her, accepting his tea with a smile of thanks. The last part wasn't entirely true, but he didn't bother saying it out loud. The truth was he found the wedding planning suffocating and was glad to have an excuse to leave the Burrow. It was nice to escape the noise and kerfuffle that filled it as Ginny ran around, organizing and planning to the very last detail. He had expected her to become slightly anxious at the very least, as the day of their union came nearer, but she seemed to be drawing strength from it. She had put up a board in the middle of the Weasleys' small sitting room, and on it she had pinned hundreds of tiny notes, cloth strips, and photographs. It made Harry nauseous just looking at it, but it all seemed to make sense to his fiancée. Every day she pinned more and more things onto the board; he could only assume that she had cast a Steadying Charm on it as it hadn't toppled over yet. She'd work hours into the night, snapping at whoever was foolish enough to bother her. It seemed that Ginny wanted their wedding to be perfect, down to the last napkin ring.

Ginny wanted a grand wedding with more than a thousand guests, complete with its own choir and orchestra. Harry had refused; he wanted something small and private, but she was adamant. She argued that this would only happen once in their lives and wouldn't he want it to be unforgettable? Plus, she reasoned, it would cost only a fraction of what it normally would anyway, as many of the businesses in the magical England would gladly give their services for free in exchange for the endorsement of the Potter-Weasley wedding. In one of their worse arguments, Harry even went so far as to suggest postponing the wedding until they both agreed on a compromise. His expression faltered after he saw the look on her face. Harry gave in to her pleas in the end, tired as he was of the nagging and fighting.

He sat there quietly for a few minutes, sipping his tea. Hermione did not seem to be in any hurry to break the silence either; she looked like she was lost in thought. As this behavior wasn't entirely unexpected of her, Harry contented himself by looking at his surroundings. The kitchen was spotlessly clean, but not unnaturally so like Aunt Petunia's used to be. Its light yellow walls gave off a warm, welcoming air, and the little blue accents found here and there gave the room personality. Knives and other utensils were arranged on a little metal island in the middle, and pots and pans hung upon the walls. Its spaciousness prevented the room from feeling stuffy. Harry sensed that this room was used very, very frequently.

"This is my Mum's room; she loves cooking. So much in fact, that she wanted to be a chef until my grandparents convinced her that dentistry was a better choice. Carry on the family business and all. Gramps is still upset about my career choices— he couldn't understand why I preferred to work in an office instead of my very own clinic," Hermione said from beside him. He realized she had been watching him as he was looking around. "Mum and Dad turned in early tonight; I think they're going to a dentistry convention in Cornwall tomorrow."

Harry looked at his best friend. There were deep shadows under her eyes; indeed, deeper than he had ever seen them for a long time. She looked pale and tired, like she usually did during exam weeks in Hogwarts.

"Are you all right, Hermione? Them at the Ministry aren't piling too much work on you, are they?" he said indignantly. "You've only been there a month!"

"What? Of course not," she said, looking startled. "They're not giving me enough, actually. I've asked, but they seem to think I've more than enough work as it is."

"Well, obviously they don't know the great Hermione Granger all that much," he said. He smiled, but he was still troubled. If they weren't giving her as much work as she would have liked, then why did she look like she wasn't getting sleep at all? "Are you sure you're all right, though? You look exhausted."

"Oh, I've had the flu these past few days, that's all. I haven't had time to buy some Pepper Up from Diagon Alley, but I've been making do with some of the Muggle medicine we have lying around. I'm all right now." She said quickly.

"And you still showed up to work even though you were sick," Harry guessed, shaking his head.

"Well of course I did. I couldn't let the paperwork pile up, could I? Oh, shut up," she said, when he smirked at her. She hadn't smiled once since he had arrived and he was glad to see a grudging smile appear as he continued to snigger.

"I think you've got to get going, they might wonder where you've got to. I'll go get those earrings." She started to get up from the table. Watching her slight frame straighten up, Harry had a feeling that Hermione didn't want him to go. He could not shake impression that she was feeling rather lonely.

He touched her arm to stop her. "It's okay, Hermione. Believe me, I'm in no big hurry to get back to the Burrow myself. Ginny's probably too busy and Ron will only be happier that I'm taking a long time to talk some sense into you."

She didn't smile, but she sat back down and stared at the table top. "How's the wedding planning going?" she asked, looking up.

"I've been helping out, but Ginny's only got me doing the littlest things. She's put up this board filled with notes and stuff, and she gets so caught up sometimes I think she forgets where she is. I think Luna's feeling slightly guilty that Ginny's doing all the work," Harry said, a little awkwardly.

Everyone had been shocked to hear that Ginny had not chosen Hermione to be her Maid of Honour. Oddly, she looked quite relieved and only slightly offended when Ginny broke the news. Ginny had apologized profusely to her after seeing everyone's reactions, explaining that she had promised Luna the title (Luna looked surprised at these words). Hermione merely waved away her apologies, assuring her that it was completely okay, acting so cheerfully in fact, that she had convinced everyone by the time she had to leave. Ron and Ginny had had a fight about it later that night, however; Ron was insisting that Ginny should make Hermione Maid of Honour because it "only made sense," as she was the groom's best friend and the best man's girlfriend. Ginny in turn had yelled at him that she, the  _bride,_ had already decided and that he had no right to tell her who her Maid of Honour should be.

"Well, you know better than I do that when Ginny puts her mind up to something, sooner or later it's going to happen," she said. "My earrings're going to be the Something Borrowed, aren't they?"

Ginny had included a few Muggle customs in the wedding plans. One of them was the tradition that the bride should wear something old, something blue, something borrowed, and something new.

"I think so. She never really told me, she just ordered me to get them from you tomorrow and that was when Ron started choking," Harry said, examining Hermione's face closely as he added, "how are things with you two, anyway?"

He held her gaze firmly, sensing that she would change the subject.

"We're good! So tell me more about the wedding, is it true Celestina Warbeck's going to perform?" she said, a little too brightly.

"No, you don't. Tell me what's wrong, Hermione," he said, looking at her in concern. He had been worried about the pair of them lately; weeks have passed since he saw Hermione for longer than five minutes and it seemed like Ron wasn't doing any better. He was more irritable these days, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. Harry rather resented this side of Ron, and had learned to avoid him whenever Ron was on one of his strops.

"But nothing  _is_  wrong, Harry! Ron and I are  _fine_!" Hermione said, a little too forcefully.

"All right then, if you say so," Harry said, backing down but not quite believing her.

She sighed.

"I'm sorry. We  _are_  fine…. We're just…going through a rough patch, that's all. It's completely normal." She tried for a smile.

These 'rough patches,' however, were happening much too often for Harry's liking. It wasn't just Hermione and Ron's usual bickering anymore— he felt that whatever his two friends were going through, a few of Ron's jokes wouldn't be able to fix it anymore.

"That's good, then. How's work? Have they given you a case yet?"

"It's  _wonderful!_ They made me read through some of their more interesting cases, and you wouldn't believe how horrible some of them were, Harry!"

A month ago, Hermione had come to the Burrow and surprised them all with the news that the Ministry had offered her a high-ranking position within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Amidst the cries of "Congratulations!" and hugs, however, she surprised them all further by announcing that she had rejected the offer, but with the compromise of taking a job that was considerably lower than the one she was supposed to take. She explained that she would be more like an intern, instead of a proper employee.

"I bet I'd learn loads! I could work my way up and by the time I'm ready to be Head, I'd know everything to do with the job then!" she had gushed excitedly, as the rest of them exchanged exasperated looks.

Back in the Grangers' quiet kitchen, Harry watched her as she spoke animatedly. This was the most lively he had seen her all evening. He took the opportunity and threw himself completely into the conversation, ignoring her slightly bemused looks as he asked her questions and reacted with uncharacteristic interest. Her stories were actually intriguing. He was horrified when she told him about a wizard who had gotten himself stuck half-human half-newt while illegally practicing Animagism, and guffawed when he heard about witch who had her nose hairs curled after trying to enchant a curling iron. He found it a relief not having to talk about anything remotely close to silverware, and he could sense that Hermione too, was glad that the subject of her and Ron's relationship had been dropped.

"Harry, what time is it?"

He and Hermione had been so engrossed in their conversation that they had forgotten about the time. He pulled out the pocket watch he had received on his seventeenth birthday. His heart sank when he saw that it was almost one in the morning.

"Blimey, it's late. I'm surprised Ron hasn't come charging up here yet."

"We'd better go get the earrings, Harry," Hermione said, jumping down from the stool and placing their long empty mugs into the sink. "Come on."

He followed her up a flight of stairs, emerging into another long hallway. Instead of photographs, plaques and awards hung on the walls. There were so many that Harry could not make out the colour of the walls behind them. Hermione walked past two or three more doors before reaching the one at the end of the corridor. She turned the knob and went inside, leaving the door open behind her.

Unsure whether he was allowed to come in, Harry hovered by the doorway.

Hermione's room was painted a pleasant shade of light blue. Shelves were installed on three of the four walls, all of them packed to bursting with books. The wall that wasn't, however, was filled with photographs upon photographs; many of them, if not most, seemed to be of her, Ron, and Harry at Hogwarts. There was a picture of them in the Gryffindor common room, laughing uproariously. Another that looked to be a few years later, sitting under the beech tree by the lake. Ron was messing up his hair, Hermione was reading, and Harry was grinning for some reason. There were many, many more, and he could not understand where she had gotten them. He had never even seen her use a camera before.

"Er…Hermione?" he said, tentatively.

"Hmm? Come in here," she said, pointing at the chair that stood by a table laden with yet more books. She was rummaging through the depths of her dresser, finally coming up with a little black jewellery box. "Aha!"

"Hermione, where'd you get all these pictures?" Harry asked her.

"Oh…erm..." Her expression turned sober. "I got those from Colin Creevey. I saw him looking at his prints and I asked if he could give some to me. He used to mail them over to me through Muggle post."

Harry nodded, remembering the little blond boy who had admired him so very much. Colin was hardly ever seen without his camera, snapping away. He had been among those who died in the battle, having sneaked in from Hogsmeade despite being underage.

There was silence for a few minutes. Harry found that he was glad Hermione had them. They were concrete evidence that three of them had used to spend all their free time together; which, he reflected sadly, had stopped being the case for almost a year.

"Well, here you are," Hermione said, approaching him with the emerald studs nestled in her open palm. She had worn these to Harry's eighteenth birthday party, looking embarrassed as everyone complimented her about them, and praising Ron for his thoughtfulness. Spluttering incoherently, the latter denied his involvement, looking very sorry as he did so.

Hermione flicked her wand, conjuring a little velvet box to encase them. She handed it to Harry, who tucked it safely into his jacket's inside pocket. Harry stood. Hermione was already starting towards the hall.

"You should go, Harry. It's late. "

He spoke without thinking.

"Hermione—will you go to Godric's Hollow with me?"

Hermione stopped walking abruptly, turning slowly to face Harry.

"What?"

"Will you go to Godric's Hollow with me?" he repeated.

"What— _now?_ " she said, looking puzzled. "No, no, not  _now_ …Just….soon, before the wedding." Harry said, looking at her beseechingly. "Please?"

Hermione sighed. Harry crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping she'd say yes. She stared at him.

"I don't get it, Harry. Why don't you just ask Ginny to go with you?"

Harry took in her words. Why  _didn't_  he just ask Ginny? It made more sense. After all, she  _was_ his fiancée, and wouldn't it be prudent to visit his parent's graves with the girl who would soon be their daughter-in-law? The thing was, Harry found visiting his parent's graves intensely private; so much, that he had never brought Ginny nor anyone else with him before. The only person whom he had ever visited them with was Hermione, back when he had gone to Godric's Hollow for the first time. Harry felt that he could not bear to go there with anyone else; not when he was so jangled with thoughts and nerves about the upcoming wedding.

"I— I can't, she's too busy. I'll take her as soon as the wedding's over, I promise. In the meantime, will you please come?" He looked at her pleadingly.

She stared at him for a few more moments, her expression unreadable. After another minute, her face cleared.

"Of course I will. You know that, Harry." She said finally and he breathed a sigh of relief. "When do you want to go?"

"Whenever you're free, I suppose. Chief Stonehill's given me an entire month off for wedding preparations. It's ridiculous."

Hermione considered him for a few seconds. "What about tomorrow afternoon?"

Harry gaped at her.

" _Tomorrow afternoon?_ But Hermione— it's Friday! You have work tomorrow afternoon!"

She smiled at his outburst. "It's okay, Harry. I'll just take half the day off, tell them I'm sick. They'll believe me—I  _have_ been looking pretty awful for the past week."

Harry couldn't speak. Anyone who knew Hermione Granger knew what a mark it was that she would willingly skive off an entire afternoon of work.

"But—you—why?" He spluttered.

She laughed. "Consider it an early wedding gift."

And with that, she took his arm and led him off to her porch for him to Disapparate back to the Burrow.


	2. Weasleys' Wizard Woes

Harry woke up in Ginny's bedroom the next morning, squinting as he felt around the bedside table for his glasses. Ginny was not beside him; he could only assume that she was already downstairs working on her wedding board. Sunlight streamed in through the open window and a glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was already half past nine. Ginny would be well into her planning by now, and Ron was probably already in Diagon Alley.

He padded down the stairs fifteen minutes later, heading into the kitchen after seeing that the sitting room was empty. Seated on one end of the kitchen table was Mrs. Weasley and Fleur Delacour, both beaming happily.

"'Ello, 'Arry!" Fleur rose to kiss him in both cheeks. She smiled at him, looking radiant.

"We thought it best not to wake you, Harry dear. There's breakfast over there," Mrs. Weasley said fondly, pointing out the covered plates sitting in the middle of the wooden table.

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. How are you and Bill, Fleur?" Harry said, as he helped himself to scrambled eggs and toast.

"We are good! Bezzer than good, actually!" she literally glowed with pride, "Bill iz working very 'ard—'e's been promoted to Head Cursebreaker now, only instead of being in Egypt 'e iz looking for treasure 'ere in Europe."

"Tell him congratulations from me, then." He grinned at her. "Mrs. Weasley, have you seen Ginny? She wasn't in the living room when I looked."

"She's gone up to Upper Flagley, dear. Went to look for that man who claims he's got the best trained fairies on this side of Britain."

Harry furrowed his brows. "Fairies?"

"Yes, she mentioned something about table centerpieces, or was it chandeliers? I don't quite recall…"

"She eez working herself too 'ard, Ginny. She will look pale in 'er wedding dress!" Fleur clucked as Mrs. Weasley poured Harry some pumpkin juice from an enormous flagon.

Harry ate vigorously, shoveling down his eggs as he did his best to drown out the wedding talk that the two women were starting to get well into. By the time he finished eating, they were arguing about whether the wedding carriage would look better in eggshell white or cream. He stood, clearing the dishes and silverware with a flick of his wand and sending them to their respective drawers.

Mrs. Weasley looked up at him, "Any plans today, Harry dear?"

"I'm not really sure. Did Ginny leave any errands for me?" he asked, surprised when his soon-to-be mother-in-law shook her head.

That was how Harry usually spent his days—going to Diagon Alley and other wizarding villages for tasks that were deemed by Ginny simple enough for him to do without her guidance. He found that he rather relied on those, restless as he was due to all his free time. A few days after he was given a month off by the Chief Auror (who seemed to be  _very_  fond of Harry and tended to favour him over all the other new recruits), he had tried to come back to training only to be shooed away by the head instructor. He had practically shoved an indignant Harry out the door, insisting that the latter enjoy his holiday and not come back until he was back from his honeymoon. Harry suspected the poor man was rather scared of getting on the Chief's bad side, which was unfortunate because Harry found entirely too much time on his hands and nary a clue as to what to do with it.

Still, he could not bear the thought of moping around all day so he bid goodbye to Mrs. Weasley and Fleur, who had continued to chatter on about whether fairies looked better on the chandeliers or centerpieces. As he let himself out the kitchen door, he heard Mrs. Weasley call out, "Harry! I almost forgot, make sure you get back here in time for dinner tonight— we're having a special announcement! If you happen to run into anyone from the usual crowd, bring them as well, will you?"

She beamed at him excitedly, and with his assurances of getting back for dinner, he let himself out the kitchen door and Disapparated.

He found himself in the middle of Diagon Alley a second later, the  _pop_  that announced his appearance drowning in the hubbub and chatter of the wizarding folk merrily going about their shopping. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was in front of him, the front window display as boisterous and bright as ever with things that flashed and banged its way into attracting the attention of every person that passed by. He let himself in, squeezing past people squished together in the aisles, young and old alike as they examined the items that threatened to fall off the overflowing shelves. The joke shop's popularity had not wavered over the past four years since it opened. Despite having walked these aisles more times than he can count, Harry still felt a  _pang_ in his chest every time he was there. He still saw traces of Fred everywhere; it was like the latter was waving and grinning at Harry from the shelves, the ceiling, and even from the cage of pigmypuffs that was surrounded by a crowd of laughing children. Two years had passed and Fred's presence was still thoroughly rooted here, as palpable in the dust that swirled around as it was in his and his twin's creations that were stock-piled everywhere. Everything looked so normal that Harry was almost convinced that any minute now Fred was suddenly going to come bouncing out from behind one of the curtains with his wild red hair and a wicked grin to boot.

The curtain to his immediate left moved aside, and Harry blinked, his mind irrationally believing for a moment that he had somehow conjured Fred from the back of the shop with his musings. The moment was over in a second, as he shook his head from his reverie and recognized George in his magenta robes, grinning at him and looking exactly like his twin except for the gaping hole on the left side of his head. He must have looked funny, for George said, "Hullo, Harry! You alright, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost."

In a way, Harry had. He chose not to mention this, opting instead to ask George where Ron was. A minute later he stepped through another curtain into the store's only sparsely populated area, where Muggle playing cards, top hats, and other "Muggle Magic"-themed items were found. He found Ron with his head down, shoulders hunched, and staring at his hands where he was clutching a little plastic imitation of a Muggle mobile phone, one that yelled out insults at full volume once the unknowing victim puts it up to his ear.

"Hey. What're you doing back here?" he said, clapping Ron on the back, startling him and causing him to drop the phone.

"Blimey, Harry! You know I don't like it when people sneak up on me…" he said, swearing as he picked it up from the floor and replaced it on the shelf with its fellows.

Harry gave him an inquiring look, staring from him to the phone. He sighed and answered, "I've just been thinking about Hermione. She still hasn't returned any of the letters I've sent her, and she always manages to duck me whenever I try to visit her at the Ministry. D'you think if I used a fellytone to call her house, she might actually talk to me this time?"

He looked at Harry desperately, as though wishing it was Hermione instead who was standing there with him. Harry didn't know what to say to that, and so he merely attempted a look of concern, while reflecting sadly that he missed Ron and Hermione's constant bickering compared to this. A sudden burst of exclamation exploded from Ron, causing Harry to start in surprise.

"I wish I knew what was  _wrong_! But I can't even do that, because she refuses to talk to me more than a 'hi' or 'hello' when I come visit her at the Ministry! She immediately makes some excuse to get away! I wish I knew what's going on with her, whether she's alright now— I heard from Dad that she was sick…What happened when you came to her house last night, did you talk to her?"

He added this last bit rather hungrily, looking at Harry with wide eyes, begging for answers. Harry nodded slowly, feeling like it would be wrong to say that he and Hermione had talked for hours when she could not even find it within herself to spare him more than a few minutes of her time. He had to say something, of course, and so he said, "Not much. They're really keeping her busy at the Ministry.

He felt rather horrible about this lie, and so he added hopefully, "Maybe you'll get to talk to her at dinner tonight."

"Yeah, that's assuming she's going to come around at all. When was the last time she showed up at the Burrow, Harry?" he said, still looking disgruntled.

Now that he thought of it, the last time Harry had seen Hermione at the Burrow was at the dinner when Ginny had announced that Luna was to be her maid of honour. That was March, and now it was already May. Clearly, Hermione was determined to stay away. He placed both his hands on Ron's shoulders consolingly, attempting to give off what he hoped to be a supportive air. He started to steer Ron towards the rest of the shop, where he knew the hustle and bustle would distract his friend from thinking about Hermione. "You know what, mate? I'll make sure she goes tonight. I'll go to her right now."

Ron turned abruptly and threw him a sharp look, which faded the moment after it came. He looked at Harry dejectedly and nodded.

"Tell her I love her, okay?" he said and went off through the curtain, leaving Harry alone in the dark musty room full of things no one else found interesting enough to examine.

In hindsight, Harry reckoned that he should have tried harder to console his friend. He should have told him how Hermione was really doing, that she had been sick and was not doing so well herself. He definitely should have also told him about his plans to visit Godric's Hollow with her that afternoon. He knew he should have done all these things, when Ron was anxious for even the slightest bit of information on Hermione. He shook his head, thinking glumly about tonight's dinner— where Hermione will most likely be absent, shooting down Ron's hopes yet again.

He returned to the shop's main area and saw George talking to a customer, a young witch who looked to be around eight years old. She seemed to be particularly interested in the Headless Hats that were stacked precariously on top of a shelf.

"Ah, Harry. Just the man I wanted to see." George winked at him. "Cessy here wants to get her brother back for a certain prank that may or may not have involved bits of Cockroach Cluster and peanut brittle. Do you agree that giving him a good, proper scare from a headless Cessy would make things even?"

"How old is your brother, Cessy?" Harry said, stooping down to smile at the gap-toothed girl who was now looking curiously up at him.

"Sean's ten. Last week he gave me Cockroach Clusters disguised as peanut brittle. I told Mummy but she wouldn't believe me!" She said, pouting. "So now, I'm going to get him back."

She added that last part with a wicked grin that could have rivaled the twins'.

"Well, Cessy, I think that's a  _very_  good idea. However, don't you think Sean would be much more scared if you were only a floating head?" he asked, smiling as he remembered Malfoy's face when he saw Harry's disembodied head floating near the Shrieking Shack during their third year.

Cessy appeared to be considering the statement deeply. "I guess that would be more frightening. But how do I do that?"

"I do believe George over here has a cloak that could make you invisible. Don't you, George?" he said, looking up and realizing that George was watching them with amusement.

"Yeah, Cessy. We have a lot of novelty Invisibility Cloaks here," he said as he pulled one off the wall and demonstrated its effects to the little girl. "It adjusts its length to whoever's wearing it, see?"

He put the cloak around her, which had shortened to the right length and had caused her body to disappear from the neck down.

Cessy appeared to be delighted by this. "I'll take it! How much is it?"

Her face fell when George told her it was worth three Galleons. She pulled out two Galleons from her pocket, looking morosely at the floor.

Seeing this, George slapped himself on the forehead and turned to Harry in a loud voice. "Oh wait! Harry, didn't Ron mention that there's to be a sale on Invisibility Cloaks today? From three Galleons, to two?"

"Oh, er…yes, I distinctly remember Ron saying that. How could you forget?" Harry said somberly, shaking his head at George.

"George can be very forgetful sometimes." He whispered loudly to Cessy, putting up his hand to side of his mouth so that George wouldn't see.

"Silly me." George said, shaking his head. "Tell you what, Cessy, if you promise to forgive this atrocious lack of quality customer service, I'll throw in a Headless Hat for free. That way you can decide which scares him better." He said, laughing as the girl's eyes widened with excitement while she handed him her two Galleons.

"Just make sure to come back and tell me if Sean was scared good and proper, alright? If not, we'll figure out another prank for him." He smiled down at her as he handed her one of the hats.

The girl gave a gap-toothed grin and ran off in search of her mother, the cloak trailing behind her.

"Good job, Harry!" George said, giving him a high-five. "Though you'd have to do better than that, if you were to raise a Weasley kid."

He added this last part with a wink.

Harry ignored this, choosing instead to remind George to come to the Burrow for dinner.

"Well, who am I to miss Mum's cooking? Now if you'll excuse me, Harry, there are ladies over there who seem to be in need of assistance." He gave Harry a parting pat on the shoulder and moved toward a gaggle of young witches who were clustered around the love potions.

Harry smiled amusedly as he watched George introduce himself, smoothly mixing flirting and sales talk as he explained the different potencies and effects of each potion. It was reassuring to see George acting like this, when three years ago it had taken a massive amount of combined effort to bring the old George back.

He had been listless and quiet since Fred's death, never talking unless spoken to and only with vague, detached sentences when he did. The first few months after the battle, it was as though someone had put out an invisible fire at the Burrow. Harry sometimes found Mrs. Weasley hunched over the stove, her body racked with silent sobs and unaware that the roast was burning. Mr. Weasley spent more and more time at the Ministry, only going home past ten in the evening. The rest of the Weasley children, including Harry and Hermione, had stayed and visited out of obligation though it was obvious that none of them wanted to be there.

It was as though something dark and cold had taken root within the Burrow, spreading and tightening its tendrils around them as they slept so that each day became worse and worse. They would sometimes eat dinner in complete silence, with only the sound of cutlery against the plates in their ears. George had started to disappear for hours on end, dodging questions about his whereabouts by locking himself in his and Fred's room. George's behavior persisted for weeks on end until Harry and Ron were woken up one night by people shouting and thundering down the stairs.

"What's going on?" he demanded, as he and Ron ran into Hermione in the kitchen. Everyone else was already outside,

"It's George." She said, her eyes bright with fear. Ron paled, and they hurried outside to join the others, who were clustered in a loose circle around Ginny, who looked tearful.

No one knew what exactly was going on, except that Luna had sent Ginny a patronus telling her that something was wrong with George and to come immediately to the cliff situated on the far side of Stoatshead Hill. No one questioned her as they Disapparated immediately, none bothering to retrieve jackets or dressing gowns despite the cold.

When the spinning had cleared, it had taken Harry several moments to take in the scene before him. His stomach lurched. George was standing on the very edge of the cliff, his wand raised threateningly in one hand. Everyone else was standing frozen, afraid to make a sudden move lest George take a step backward. Nearest him stood Luna, at whom George was coldly staring.

"You called my family," he said, his face blank and expressionless while Luna's was streaked with tears. It was not a question. "Stay back!"

He added the last part with such ferocity in his face that for a moment Harry did not recognize him.

"George, please!"

"Don't do this, George…"

"No, George!"

“Fred wouldn’t have wanted this, George!”

Harry did not know whose voice was whose, or what he was saying. He was vaguely aware of himself shouting, though none of the words registered in his mind. Every time someone started towards him or so much as made a sudden move, George inched backward. Throughout all this, through all the panic, the calm expression on his face had remained plastered.

For what felt like hours, they remained at a standoff: George slowly moving backward and the rest trying desperately think of ways to catch him off his guard with a spell that wouldn't cause him to lose his balance. The cliff behind him was not a very high one, though there were sharp rocks that would certainly tear him apart if he landed on the bottom. With the darkness that surrounded them, it was highly probable that they might miss him with their spells as he fell. The wind was picking up, and many of them except for George and Luna were in their night things.

Only after at least twenty minutes of pleading and shouting did something happen. Harry had been ready to attempt a Freezing Charm when suddenly a commotion to his left caught everyone’s attention. Mrs. Weasley had collapsed, Charlie catching her just in time. Everyone rushed toward her and in the fuss that followed, nobody except Ginny noticed that George had lowered his guard.

Quick as a flash, she had rendered him paralyzed.

The week after that had been one of the darkest that year. George wasn't allowed to go anywhere without a companion, and Mrs. Weasley cried harder than ever. Everyone was in a state of worry and caution, all tiptoeing around, afraid that they would set things off. Luna had also started to come by more frequently, and was usually found in the garden talking to gnomes. After a while, it got better. George started laughing again, and Mrs. Weasley had started humming in the kitchen again. It was unclear when the change had taken effect, but Harry and everyone else was glad of it nonetheless.

Fred's death had affected them all deeply, but it was clear that it was nothing compared to the chasm he had left in his twin's life. At times, Harry caught George staring blankly at his own reflection, his fists clenched. Seeing George like this, flirting and laughing with his customers, filled Harry with unexplainable peace that seemed to be bubbling up from his stomach.

He smiled slightly, taking the boisterous, laughing image of George and storing it away. Then he turned and once again headed out to Diagon Alley.

 


	3. The Hollow Again

Harry walked faster, darting in between pedestrians and dodging couriers in bikes that sped past. He was starting to believe this was a bad idea, and longed to turn back and find a secluded corner from where he could Disapparate. He was getting close, however, so he resolved to forge on, keeping his head down and the collar of his coat turned up. People bumped into his back as they overtook him, grunting impatiently as he muttered his apologies. One woman knocked into him particularly hard, sending him stumbling into a newspaper stand and causing the vendor to yell at him. Swearing, he did his best to tidy up the display and once again ducked into the stream of people on the pavement. The reason Harry was in this predicament was that he had the brilliant idea to get to the Ministry the Muggle way, which was to walk to his destination. Not having been in Muggle London for the better part of three years, Harry failed to foresee the bustling traffic and crowded streets of downtown London.

He had sent Hermione a patronus before leaving the Leaky Cauldron, telling her to meet him at the visitor's entrance to the Ministry at one o' clock. It was now one-oh-five. He quickened his pace even more, relieved as he ducked into a side street and the familiar red telephone box came into view. He found her leaning on the wall next to it blank-faced, and staring off into space. His approach caught her attention, however, and she raised an eyebrow once he got within earshot.

"You're late," she said, as he embraced her and she pecked his cheek, laughing as she looked at his disheveled appearance. "What happened, did you run into a couple of your fans on the way here?"

"Ha ha," he said, disgruntled. "I ran into a newspaper stand, that's what happened. The old man practically shoved me out onto the sidewalk."

"Oooh, wait till the tabloids get a hold of this—Harry Potter brawling with a poor old man in Muggle London." She smirked.

Harry looked at her, unamused. He knew perfectly well that it was not below the wizarding tabloids to come up with such stories had they witnessed him getting into something quite as uneventful as that.

"So you're really doing this then? You're actually skiving off work? You can still go back, you know, we're still on Ministry premises," he said, quirking his eyebrows at her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "One more out of you and I swear I'm leaving you here and going back to the office."

"Alright, alright. Thank you, madam, for choosing to skip work for me." He threw up his hands, chortling. "On a related note, did they actually believe you were abandoning work for the flu?"

"They did, as a matter of fact. It actually hurt, how they seemed rather glad to be rid of me. I think they've heard too much sneezing out of me for the past few weeks." She smiled ruefully.

"Well, alright then! Let's get going," he said brightly, offering his hand to her as he bowed deeply. She laughed as she took his hand, and it was the warm sound that swirled around him as he spun on the spot and disappeared into nothingness.

_ooo_

While many of the residents of Godric's Hollow were Muggles, most of them seem to be rather resigned to the funny things that kept happening around them on a daily basis. They have long since given up trying to explain why their next door neighbor's flowers bloomed fully in the winter, why some people walk past trees and don't appear on the other side, and why a peculiar number of strange people visit their village just to look at the old war memorial in the middle of the square. It was precisely this memorial that Harry and Hermione found themselves next to. It had been a long time since Harry had been to Godric's Hollow, and he had slightly miscalculated the distance thus dragging him and Hermione several meters from the intended Apparition spot behind the post office. They looked around wildly, but no one seemed to have noticed apart from a wide-eyed little girl clinging to her mother's hand outside the pub.

Harry smiled at the child and put a finger to his lips, then taking Hermione's arm with his other hand and leading her across the square towards the church. It was very different from the last time he was here. It was fall then, and leaves covered the graves in a thin blanket that crackled whenever disturbed. Now, as they walked around the church towards the back, the summer sky shone brightly and flowers bloomed fully in the bushes surrounding the graveyard. A light breeze carried around them, fluttering the bushes and carrying the sound of the birds down to them. In a way, Harry was glad his parents lay in a place that was beautiful no matter what season it was.

The kissing gate creaked as Harry pushed it open, and they stood quietly for a while as they surveyed the rows of tombstones in front of them. There were two or three other people laying flowers on some graves, and the overall feel of the graveyard was warm and welcoming. He moved with no hurry, letting his eyes alight on the names of each grave he passed. He could feel rather than hear Hermione walking behind him, and didn't stop until he reached a tombstone with lichen dotting its dark face.

"Wait." He said, motioning to Hermione to stop. He knelt down, brushing stray leaves off its surface and gazed silently at the two names engraved upon the dark granite. His eyes traveled further down to the inscription below them.

_Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also._

The first time Harry saw these words, he had not understood them. He had been full of bitterness, angry at Dumbledore for so many reasons. He had forged on, stinging from the blow of the knowledge that Dumbledore did not think it important enough to tell him that his family was also here. He was over that now, and he had long come to terms and made peace with the mistakes that Dumbledore had committed. The man was only human, after all, no matter how many believed him to be more than that. He pulled out his wand and cleared the spots covering it, picking a few primroses from a nearby bush and laying it down on the cold stone. He could sense Hermione looking at him, and after a few moments of silence, several more flowers joined the ones he had placed on the Dumbledores' grave.

They walked on until they reached the white marble tomb that covered the two people that Harry had thought of the most his entire life. He knelt down, and now that he was here, he did not know what to do. The past few days, Harry's thoughts had been filled with this overwhelming need to visit his parent's graves. He had planned to come here alone, like he always did since the battle. Inviting Hermione to come with him was an impulse decision, he had blurted it out once it had crossed his mind. Now he was glad he did it, and he was glad that someone was with him.

He felt Hermione sit down on the grass beside him, taking off her coat and gesturing for him to do the same. He sighed, joining her on the grass in silence. She didn't say anything, evidently waiting for him to speak.

"Hermione— thanks. Thanks for doing this with me," he said, meeting her eyes so she would see how much he meant these words.

"Of course, Harry," she said earnestly. "Though I seem to have gotten the impression last night that there was something else bothering you."

It was just like her to get directly to the point. He examined her thoughtfully. She was looking much better than she did the night before, despite the dark bags that persisted beneath her eyes. She was wearing a scarlet sweater, clearly one that Mrs. Weasley had knitted, with a golden 'H' on the front. He had one just like it, though his was given on a different Christmas as hers was. She was leaned back, though not in a way that exuded disinterest. She was surveying him just like he was, remaining silent the entire time.

"Hermione, do you ever think about what your parents' wedding was like?"

She blinked at him. Whatever she expected him to say, this was clearly far from it. But after a moment, she seemed to understand. "My parents' wedding, Harry? Well, I guess I did. They tell me stories about it sometimes, and there are dozens of picture albums at home."

"Can you tell me about it?" Harry said, knowing how strange the conversation was turning out to be.

But Hermione nodded, smiling slightly as she started to speak. "It was on March 15th, 1978. They had it at this really beautiful church in London, you know? Big, but not too big. Mum takes me there sometimes, we drop by whenever we're in the area. Mum had this absolutely gorgeous dress—the bodice was all lace, with sleeves that flowed, and it had this really full skirt that makes you feel like a princess, with layers and layers of chiffon under it. I absolutely loved it, Harry. Every time I looked at it, I could imagine Mum walking down the aisle with Dad waiting for her at the end. She looked breathtaking in the pictures. Uncle Barry told me Dad lost it the moment he saw Mum enter the church."

Her smile got wider as she continued, "My mum, despite the pretty impressive entrance, stepped on her train and fell, but Dad caught her before she hit the floor. There's a picture of that in their bedroom at home. Mum and Dad were laughing so hard, the minister had to ask them to settle down for the vows. In the reception, they hired my Dad's cousin's band to play and I guess it was the _rocking_ music that made  _Dad_  trip this time. Mum wasn't able to save him, so she got pulled down to the floor with him. They have a picture of that too, of them kissing as they were piled up in a heap on the floor. My grandparents like to tell the story all the time. It just seemed so wonderful, you know? The way they were telling me these stories, it was like they were the best parts of the wedding— not the ones to be embarrassed of."

She looked at Harry, who was also smiling at her words. It was wonderful to see her like this, carefree. He liked seeing that side of her, especially since it was rare. He said, "Do you think my parent's wedding might have been like that, Hermione?"

She smiled at him sadly. "Well, Harry, I think it might have been a bit smaller. You know, considering how crazy that time was with the war. But I'm sure they had their own stories, you know?"

Harry nodded. Remembering some of the pictures in the album Hagrid had given him almost ten years ago. There weren't many pictures of his parent's wedding day, but the pictures there showed that it might have had its share of moments, like Hermione said. There was the picture of his parents and Sirius that he looked at all the time, showing them laughing uproariously as though something hilarious had happened off-camera. There had also been one of McGonagall dancing with his father and peering suspiciously at Sirius, who was lingering near the punch bowl.

"Maybe," he paused. "Do you… d'you think mine's gonna be like that too?"

He had gotten to the real problem at hand, and when he looked at her he realized just how terrified he was about what her answer was going to be. He watched as she turned her eyes thoughtfully to his, after which she hesitantly opened her mouth to speak.

"Of course it will be, Harry."

He looked at her disbelievingly, not even bothering to speak.

She sighed, looking earnest as she continued. "I'm serious, Harry. When I say that you're going to have a perfect wedding, I mean it. Ginny's going to make sure of that. It's not just all the extravagant stuff with the flying carriage and live fairies and all— it's everything including the perfect anecdotes you'll be telling your grandchildren in the future."

Harry blinked, not quite sure what she was getting at. "What do you mean?"

"Look, Harry, I know you think all Ginny cares about is whether the flowers match the carpet perfectly or if the silverware is elegant enough, but believe me when I say she's also got that part covered. There will be picture-perfect moments where you miss each other's mouths while feeding each other cake or you stepping on each other's feet on the dance floor or something. Besides, you'll have the entire Weasley family there— I don't think I'd have to tell you how  _unboring_  your wedding's going to be."

Harry was listening to her with growing confusion, not quite sure about what she was implying.

"I'm sorry. I guess what I really meant to say was… if Ginny wants something, you know that most of the time things would turn out how she'd want them to."

He absorbed her words slowly, thinking of several instances that could he could use to prove her point wrong. Saying that Ginny had it easy wasn't quite right, she had lost a brother in battle, and had even been unfortunate enough to be possessed by Voldemort in her first year at Hogwarts. At the same time, however, he seemed to understand what Hermione's point was about his fiancée. Ginevra Molly Weasley was a woman no one ever dared to mess with once she had made up her mind. In some ways, he loved this about her— how she was not willing to settle for anything less than what she wanted. He wouldn't be surprised if she was rehearsing a surprise performance with her brothers for the reception, or if she had something fun in store that would be a talking point for the wedding.

He could feel Hermione looking at him, probably trying to gauge his reaction to her words. He nodded, implying that he understood what she meant. "Hermione, can I tell you something?"

He felt her hand on his arm, reassuring him.

"I'm not quite sure about this wedding. Whether I still want it, I mean."

He was surprised at the sincerity of his words, how easily they fell from his mouth. He felt rather than heard her sharp intake of breath, and suddenly all he felt was blind panic— that he had finally said out loud what he had been thinking for a while, and that he was about to suffer the consequences. He would let down Mrs. Weasley and everyone else, Ron would kill him, and Ginny— Ginny would shatter.

His panic must have shown on his face, for in the next moment he could feel Hermione's arms circled around him, there to comfort rather than judge. He embraced her back tightly, suddenly running out of breath and taking deep swallows of air as though he had just broken the surface after being underwater for a very long time. He breathed in the scent of her, thanking her silently for providing him with her company on this day, at this place.

They broke apart after a minute, and it was when he looked at her face that he saw sympathy and concern. He wasn't sure if he would have continued if she spoke, and as though she could read his thoughts, she remained silent. She held his gaze, however, reassuring him.

And so he told her everything. He told her how he did not want what could be the most important moments of his life to be turned into a public event. How he could not stand it that strangers would get to hear his vows, and then to gossip about his wedding to countless others. He did not want to read about it on an issue of  _Witch Weekly,_ or having their wedding invitation be seen as a mark that you were important enough. He did not want celebrities or Ministry officials he barely knew to be there. He did not want to shake their hands and smile with them for the cameras, when he knew perfectly well that they would not have been there if he wasn't who he was. He did not know what it was that made Ginny feel like she had to make so much effort just to impress these strangers who were only going to be there to speculate about the costs, or to gossip about who the next performer would be and how they had begged to be allowed to play at the reception. He hated the extravagance it exuded, how it seemed to foreshadow the standards of living that he would soon be expected to have. He hated it, all of it— all of this tumbling out in a rush of words that only began to trickle down after his throat started to feel dry from all the talking he was doing.

Through all this Hermione remained silent until it was clear that he had finished his tirade. He did not know what to expect from her, whether it was a lecture or words of comfort. Her next words then, came as a surprise to him.

It was a simple question. She said it softly, her voice barely audible.

"What do you want to do?"

All this time, his thoughts were mainly preoccupied about the uncertainties he was having, that he had not really thought about putting his thoughts into action. He did not know what it was that he expected Hermione to say, maybe words of reassurance that would pacify him or that she would come up with a plan of compromise. What was it that he wanted to do?

"I want to call the whole thing off, Hermione!" he said at last. The words rang true, he meant it and they both knew it.

"So why don't you?" she asked calmly, as though they were merely discussing what they were going to order for dinner. Her demeanor unsettled him, when he was so used to her taking charge and giving him step-by-step instructions on what to do.

"You know why. Ginny, Ron, Mrs. Weasley— I'd let them all down. All the effort and planning Ginny has already put into this, all the money we've spent. Everything's practically set— if we really wanted to, we could probably get married tomorrow if Wizarding Britain could help it."

She furrowed her brows thoughtfully. "So you'd still go through it then, even if you've already admitted that you want to call it off?"

"I— I don't know! What would you rather me do, hurt everyone we love just because a lot of people wanted to show up at my wedding?"

"I'd rather you do what you really want to do, Harry. Think about it this way: this is what Ginny wants, and she has already worked so hard for it. Is she worth going through the whole ordeal for? It's just one day, after all."

Her words only confused him more. It was as though she was sifting through his mind, bringing up dregs that he had pushed so far down he thought they had already disappeared. The truth was, he wasn't even sure about Ginny anymore. The very idea frightened him. Sighing, he settled back and pulled out two bottles of butterbeer and a bag of sweets he got from Diagon Alley. He took his time, cracking both bottles' caps open and handing one of them to Hermione before he spoke again.

"The truth is, I'm not even sure about Ginny anymore," he said, looking down at the ground. He had come here to try and seek assurance, that maybe visiting his parents would help him banish the doubts that had been forming in his head. That being here would provide the comfort that he needed, as well as the clarity as to what he should do next. He had finally acknowledged his true feelings about his upcoming union with Ginny, which he guessed was probably a step in the right direction.

He turned to Hermione now, who he was surprised to see was staring at him intently. Her gaze was an odd mixture of sympathy and a glimmer of something else he could not quite identify, and he sensed that this was news to her. In fact, he sensed that she was rendered quite speechless by his words.

"Say something."

"You're— you're sure about this?" she asked breathlessly.

He was sure— just as sure as he was about the fact that right now, the only person who could ever understand him was the one sitting in front of him. "Yeah, I think I am."

She inhaled deeply, bracing herself. "I don't know if you brought me here so I could tell you what you should do about this, but I can't help you. I'm hardly the right person to be giving love advice right now."

Hermione looked surprised at her admittance. She sighed resignedly, grabbing the bag of candy from the ground beside him. She shook out a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans, and proceed to swallow the whole lot of them in one go. Harry could only imagine the taste. From the look on her face, it was appalling.

"Eugh, that's disgusting." She grimaced, taking a long swig from her butterbeer bottle.

Harry smirked. "What did it taste like?"

She looked at him strangely, speaking only after a heartbeat or two had passed.

"Regret."


	4. Streaks in the Sky

"Regret."

The word washed over them, allowing for several charged moments before either one of them moved or spoke. Sighing, Hermione turned her eyes skyward. The sky was light orange, with streaks of pink and magenta interspersed in between. Harry had to admit—it was a spectacular view.

"Do you know why I haven't been to see Ron at all, Harry?" Hermione asked softly. She was still looking determinedly at the sky, but Harry was looking at her intently.

He waited.

"I don't love him, Harry. I realize that now."

Harry's was rendered speechless, his mind wiped blank. What? He stared at her, prompting her to continue.

"I don't love him, Harry. Maybe I did before, but that was a long time ago. I've been trying to figure out how to tell him, only I don't even know where to begin. I can't just blurt out "I don't love you anymore!" over dinner or drinks, can I? It's gotten so bad that I couldn't really be around him anymore. That's why I haven't been to the Burrow in months, why I make excuses when Ron comes to visit me at the Ministry." She sighed, now looking at him.

"Frankly, I'm amazed that he hasn't broken up with me yet. Maybe deep down, I was hoping that he would be the one to break it off." She looked down, ashamed. "It's a cowardly thing to do, I know. I'm not about to make excuses for my actions."

Throughout all this, Harry was silent. He was vaguely aware of the warmth on his face and neck however, brought about by some emotion he had yet to identify. He then realized it was anger. He was furious at Hermione. How could she be so selfish as to not take into account Ron's feelings about this? Did she even realize what her actions were doing to his— _their—_ best friend?

He looked up to face her, his voice low but full of anger. "Do you have any idea what Ron has been going through, Hermione? This morning I found him with a toy phone in his hand, looking like he was about ready to swallow it if it meant you'd give him the time of day!"

She didn't seem surprised at his outburst. Maybe his expression had given his anger away long before he even managed to acknowledge it. She nodded miserably. "I know, and I'm so so sorry."

"Why are you telling  _me_ you're sorry? Tell him, it's him you should apologize to!" He wasn't shouting, but the force behind his words made her flinch. A part of him felt pained at her reaction, but he pushed it down.

Harry was fuming, indignant on Ron's behalf. "Come on, Hermione. You didn't really think about how this would affect him? You said it yourself before— all his life, Ron has spent his life being ignored, being made to feel like he wasn't enough! And here you are, his best friend—  _his girlfriend—_ doing exactly that!"

He was on his feet now—he hadn't been aware of standing up. Hermione had burst into tears. "I know that, Harry! I know! I'm feeling shitty enough about it as it is. The longer I've let this on, the worse I feel. I'm a terrible person!"

He didn't contradict her. "Well, what are you going to do about it then? You can't just continue stringing him along for the rest of his life!"

She sobbed harder. Harry felt all the fight rush out of him. It had only been a few moments but he was now regretting his outburst. Hermione had been so understanding about Ginny, yet here he was, making her cry. He was still angry, but part of him also hated seeing her like this. He let out a long sigh, and put his hand on her shoulder as she continued to sob. He didn't say anything, however, as he still didn't trust himself enough to speak words of comfort.

"I  _know,_ Harry! I know! I've been terrible. All this time I've been hoping for some magical solution to come and get me out of this mess, but obviously that's just me being too goddamn scared of confronting Ron. That's funny, isn't it? Merlin knows we've had enough rows for a lifetime, yet here I am terrified of facing him."

Her sobs had died down to sniffles now, and Harry found that he had enough control to speak evenly again. "I think you're afraid that whatever damage this row will cause will be irreparable, Hermione."

Now that he had said the words, he knew that was what  _he_ was afraid of. What if Ron and Hermione's friendship would be so damaged that they could never be in the same place together again? Of course, he had gone through similar situations back at Hogwarts during their third and sixth years. Ron and Hermione were also in a bad place then, but Harry knew that this was a problem on an entirely different level. They were no longer in school, therefore there weren't very many opportunities for them to interact anymore, which in turn lessens the possibility of mending their relationship. For that to happen, one of them would have to actively seek the other out. He couldn't really see that happening, not for a while.

Hermione had stopped crying and was looking down at the grass again. He realized that he had touched on what it was that had her so scared. She knew there would be no going back if she decided to break up with Ron. They had been through too much together for them to ever be friends again after. Harry knew that despite what Hermione said about her feelings for Ron (or lack thereof), she still valued him as a dear friend. It didn't help that with Ron came many of her other relationships— the entire Weasley family, their school friends, and Harry.

All of a sudden, he felt sorry for the girl who was sitting huddled beside him. Maybe it wasn't enough to excuse her actions, but he could certainly understand her fear of being left alone. He had entered the wizarding world not knowing anyone, eventually finding solace in Ron and Hermione. He was sure she felt the same. While Harry's past made him famous, it never really helped him make friends at Hogwarts— it just made him the object of gossip far too often. Hermione, on the other hand, had never been quite popular at school, and like Harry, her social circle consisted only of Ron and the other Weasleys, as well as some members of the DA. Even then, Harry knew Hermione was aware that his and Ron's friendship was different from either of their relationships with her. Harry had to admit that there was a time in their third year that he thought that his friendship with Hermione was a lot less fun than his and Ron's were, as much of it was spent in the library with hushed whispers over books and essays. He could see why Hermione might think that he would choose Ron over her, if it came down to it. After all, he was about to marry Ron's sister, and it might not be taken too well if he continued seeing her.

Unfortunately, he didn't think that Hermione's life at the Ministry is any better anyway. The night before, she had regaled him with stories of the cases she had encountered there, yet she had not mentioned even a single co-worker's name to him. He had the impression that Hermione was rather lonely at the Ministry. Sure, he expected her superiors must be in love with her the way their teachers at Hogwarts were, but he suspected that outside of that, Hermione might not even have someone there that she truly considered as anything more than an acquaintance. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts, he and many of his friends had received widespread recognition for the roles they had played— the three of them were easily recognized in wizarding places, both here and abroad. Unfortunately, this also made the people around them walk on eggshells, too intimidated to treat them normally. People fawned over him wherever he went, acting too agreeable for him to truly be interested in getting to know them. He could only imagine that Hermione co-workers at the Ministry acted like that around her too— after all, didn't they also offer her a high position in her department? He couldn't blame her for being afraid of being left alone, if everyone she had save for her own family was also, in a way, Ron's.

Quietly, he sank down next to her on the grass and slipped an arm around her shoulders. Everything was a mess, but all that can wait till morning. He would stay with her for hours if it meant her realizing that he wasn't just Ron's, he was hers too.

Just like how Ron and Hermione had a relationship completely separate from Harry, he also had different interactions with either of them that was unique from his relationship with the other. Ron was the one he turned to when he needed to talk Quidditch and the like, but Hermione was the one he turned to when he needed to talk things out, when he needed a second perspective. He relied on her insights and sharp instincts. He knew Hermione was smart, but he was also aware that she was so much more than the textbook definition of what smart was.

She had a knack of seeing people for who they were, something proven time and time again that Harry had learned not to question her on such matters. He respected her and genuinely liked being around her, despite how others might think of her as bossy and something of a show-off. He liked her in spite of that side of her— no, he liked her  _because_ of it. She was unapologetic of who she really was despite getting flack for it time and time again. He appreciated that she was always honest with him about what she thought, even if it meant he had to hear things he did not want to. He owed much to Hermione— much more than his own life, really; she had been saving his sorry behind the whole time he had known her. He knew that whatever row might occur between her and Ron, he would still continue seeing her. She was his best friend after all, and he could not imagine a life where Hermione was not in it.

They sat there in silence, his arm still around her as she continued to huddle between her knees in the grass. It was not awkward between them; he had known her far too long to be bothered by long periods of silence when he was with her. He was so close to her that he was aware of every intake of breath she took, and after a while he found that her breathing had calmed down to a regular beat. She had lifted her head from her arms, but was now looking intently at the sky. The sun was quickly setting now, bathing everything in orange light. Tendrils of inky blue sky were creeping in from above, and before they knew it, the sun had disappeared behind the church in front of them.

Through all this, Hermione hadn't moved at all, save from looking down at the grass after the sun came down. She started in surprise when a bunch of white roses was suddenly shoved unceremoniously under her nose. She looked up to see Harry with his wand out, grinning at her playfully. Her expression softened but she still didn't smile.

"What, not quite good enough?" He raised his eyebrows, waved his wand and the two dozen roses suddenly turned into various shades of orange, making it look like she was holding the sunset in her hands.

"No?" Another wave of his wand. A new bouquet of deep blue roses appeared at her feet. It was the exact same color as the sky above them. She smiled in spite of herself.

"That's it!" He smiled encouragingly, continuing to wave his wand like an overly enthusiastic conductor. Flowers of every color were raining all around her, winding up in piles of roses, daisies, carnations, and orchids. Hermione was laughing now, gathering the flowers on the ground next to her and throwing them back at Harry. More flowers shot out of his wand at her, causing her to retaliate by drawing her own wand. They were laughing uncontrollably now, ducking to avoid the floral missiles being sent their way.

They sank down to the grass a while later, their clothes covered in grass stains, with flowers strewn around them in every direction. They looked at each other guiltily—the area surrounding Harry's parents' gravestone was a mess.

"We should tidy up, don't you think?" Harry said, standing up and grabbing his wand from the ground beside him. He helped Hermione to her feet and moved to use a Vanishing charm on the area around them.

"Wait." She grabbed his arm, beaming up at him. "I can think of better ways to put this mischief to good use."

She walked over to the nearest pile of carnations, gathered them up, and proceeded to lay them on the nearest tombstone. She did the same to a bunch of orchids lying nearby. Harry joined her, picking up all stray flowers until all the gravestones in the entire row had flowers adorning them. He placed the last of the largest roses on top of his parents' graves. And stepped back, admiring their work. His parents' names were the only things visible, the rest of the white marble was covered by every kind of bloom he and Hermione had managed to conjure up earlier.

They sat back down in front of it. Harry pulled out two more bottles of butterbeer from the bag he had brought. He took a long draught before speaking, "I wanted to go here because I thought it might clear my head. I thought that visiting them would help me appease my own doubts, you know? I mean, I know my mum and dad had their own share of problems. She didn't want to have anything to do with him when they first met; Dad seemed like a humongous prat at first when I saw him in the Pensieve… Despite that, they still wound up together, you know? They were very happy together— at least that's what everyone's told me."

She passed the bag of Every Flavor Beans to him. "I don't know, Harry. I think, in cases like this— you just… know. Like, despite all the flaws your partner has, you know you'd rather live with those flaws everyday than not at all."

He was quiet for a while, digesting her words. "I don't feel any different about Ginny. Yes, she has her flaws and I've long accepted them, but I think this has gone further than that, you know? I can't exactly remember the turning point— the exact moment I stopped feeling for her, but right now I don't think it's fair for either of us if I still went through with the wedding. Who knows, maybe it's a phase for me or what, but I do know that I can't go through with it this soon. This can't just be cold feet, can it?"

"The way you describe it, Harry, I don't think it is. But for all you know, maybe a nice long talk would clear things up with her. Can't hurt to talk to her before the wedding, right?" She sighed, looking up at the sky again.

"How am I even going to start with it, Hermione? She has been through so much for this, and here I am about to suggest cooling things down a scant fortnight before we're about to be husband and wife." He was frustrated despite knowing it all came down to the fear of hurting Ginny and everyone else.

"At this point, Harry, I think the opportunity's either going to have to present itself very soon or you'll have to do it yourself."

Harry knew the discussion had come to an end. Grimly, he turned the topic to Ron.

"What about you? What are  _you_  going to do?"

She exhaled loudly. "I suppose I'm going to have to break up with him quite soon."

"Do you need me there?"

"No. I'd rather you not get involved in this. You know Ron can be a bit unreasonable sometimes."

He knew what she was implying. He always knew Ron was jealous of his relationship with Hermione. Despite Harry's attempts to appease him, he suspected that the memory of Hermione "choosing" Harry over Ron had never really left the latter's mind.

It was his turn to exhale loudly. "I suppose. It's getting dark, should we leave?"

It was long past twilight now, making it hard to see. "Yeah, I think we should."

They both rose to their feet, and with one last white rose laid on his parents' graves, they walked away. Much like the last time the two of them had been there, Harry put his arms around Hermione's shoulders, she put hers around his waist and together they walked in silence towards the church and through the old kissing gate.


	5. Where To?

They walked out of the graveyard together and into the church’s small yard, their eyes surveying the foot traffic slowly increasing on the village’s main thoroughfare. Children were starting to come home from school, and their parents were waiting to welcome them from their front yards. They paused by the church’s gate, both reluctant to go any further. Stepping through the gate meant that they were officially done with what they had come here to do, and both had their own reasons as to why they didn’t want to go yet.

Harry did not want to return to the stuffiness of the Burrow, and Hermione dreaded returning to her presently empty house in London. Rather, Hermione was aware that she was feeling lonely these days, and the recent brief respites with Harry was the most personal contact she had had this month.

Harry muttered something incoherently.

 “What?”

Harry cleared his throat, “Have you got somewhere you need to be?”

“No, not really,” Hermione said, looking up hopefully. “You?”

A beat of hesitation, and finally, “No. Not at all.”

“Great! Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his arm and striding purposefully down the street. She was pulling him along at a brisk pace, Harry was now struggling to keep up with her, despite having longer legs.

“Where are we going?” he panted.

“We’re having dinner,” she said, pointing to the pub at the end of the road. She dragged him along until they reached the pub’s front door, when Harry insisted that she go ahead and save them a seat. She gave him a quizzical look but relented, relinquishing her hold on his arm as she pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

It was great luck that the pub was situated right on the edge of a relatively thick clump of trees in which Harry stepped into, walking until the already dim light behind him began to thoroughly fade. He looked around furtively as he drew his wand, his afternoon with Hermione in mind as he muttered the incantation and a glowing white stag burst from his wand and galloped off into the distance.

Hermione looked up from her side of the booth as he walked towards her, her eyebrows raised. “What was that about?”

“What? Oh, wanted to look at the memorial for a bit.” He said, hurriedly. It was lucky that Hermione chose a booth situated on the far side of the entrance.

“I didn’t want to order until you got here. Look they’ve got treacle tart!” she said, grinning at him. He smiled at her expression, mouth already watering as he looked at the picture on the menu. They spent several more minutes flipping through the pages, pointing out interesting items and laughing at funny food names.

            “Hello, are you ready to order?” a voice from above them said.

            A kind-faced waiter was looking at them expectantly.

            “Just about,” Hermione said, good-naturedly. “We’ll have the shepherd’s pie, and the eggplant pasta, please. And the treacle tart, of course.”

            “Quite good choices, I must say,” their server said, “may I interest you in a bottle of wine, as well?”

            His customers glanced at each other, and seemed to have reached a conclusion at the same time. Now chuckling, Harry said, “Sure, why not? Have you got anything local?”

            “Yes, as a matter of fact. There’s a local vineyard not very far from here. They make rather good wine— in fact, they supply most of the villages and towns around here.”

            “Brilliant. We’ll be having that, then. Would it be alright if we take those orders to go? We have a basket you can put them in,” Harry said, producing a large wicker basket from underneath the table as Hermione looked at him wide-eyed.

            “Ah, having a romantic picnic, are you? That can be arranged,” the waiter bowed, smiling widely as he sauntered off.

            “Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, swatting his arm as she significantly lowered her voice. “I can’t believe you did magic in front of him!”

            “Ow, I did it under the table didn’t I? You’d think one would expect you to be more lax about this considering we just spent an afternoon shooting flowers at each other in broad daylight,” Harry said, raising his eyebrows.

            Hermione was now wearing an expression of dawning horror. “Oh my--! What if someone saw us? I can’t believe— oh no—I was too caught up to check— what should we do?”

            “Relax, Hermione, I checked— I just wanted to see how you would react,” Harry laughed, wincing slightly as he received another swat to the arm. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

            It took fifteen minutes for their order to arrive, by which the light outside the windows had significantly darkened into a proper, inky black. When the waiter hefted the basket onto their table, all other thoughts was wiped from their minds. The smell was tantalizing, the different aromas blending together so that not one element became too overpowering.

            “I’ve taken the liberty of adding in plates and silverware,” he said, bowing gently.

            “Thank you, it smells lovely,” Hermione said, smiling.

“May we have the check please?” Harry asked, at which the waiter smoothly retrieved the desired item from his back pocket. It was only when Harry opened the check-holder and saw the little symbol marking pounds that his heart stopped. He had been looking forward to the food so much that he had forgotten he had no Muggle money. A gentle hand touched his arm, however, and he looked up to see Hermione smiling knowingly at it.

“I’ll get it,” she whispered, reaching into her purse and looking up at the waiter who was tactfully looking away.

            “Here,” Hermione said, reaching out to hand the waiter the money. “Thank you.”

            The waiter bowing them out the door, amid their assurances of returning.

            “I’ll pay you back,” Harry said, still flushing as he led Hermione to the wood he had used earlier, with the heavy basket swinging in one hand.

            “I sure hope so— that didn’t come cheap you know,” she said teasingly. When he didn’t answer, she laughed. “I’m just teasing, Harry, come on.”

            “Yeah, well, I’ll make it up to you somehow. Why’d you have so much Muggle money, anyway? You don’t spend much time in Muggle London, do you?”

            “No, but Mum and Dad insist on leaving me money whenever they leave town. I just haven’t gotten around to changing them in Gringotts. Lucky, too, or we’d have ended up washing the dishes or something,” she paused, then, “D’you think that really happens? You know, those stories of diners having to wash the dishes and clean the place if they didn’t have money to pay?”

            “Dunno, but you sure saved us from finding out,” Harry said, chuckling. “I can’t believe you saved my arse yet again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

            Hermione was saved from responding when Harry held out an arm to indicate that they had reached a suitable Disapparition spot.

            “Are you sure you really don’t want to tell me where we’re going?” Hermione ventured, looking up at where she assumed Harry’s face was.

            “Nope,” Harry said, promptly. “Come on, just a few more seconds anyway,”

            She fell silent, waiting for him to take her hand and pull her along into thin air.

            Thrusting out his free arm in a wide arc, he caught her the woolly sleeve of her sweater. He slid his arm down until his hand clasped hers.

He paused, allowing himself a moment before Disapparating, his senses taking over as he stood.

The only thing he could hear was their breathing— nothing stirred nor squawked in the trees around them. When he inhaled, he breathed in the smell of her—coconut, and something else he couldn’t identify. He could feel her arm pressed closely to his, and in the blackness; it was a welcome reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Suddenly, he became very aware that he was holding Hermione’s hand in the dark.

            Harry had never paid attention to the feel of her hand before. It was cool and steady, gripping his own trustingly. Her skin was soft against his, and as though involuntarily, he let his thumb graze slowly over hers. The move was meant to be affectionate and reassuring, a gesture of camaraderie and thanks for being by his side.

Yet, he found himself running his thumb back over the little area of skin he had brushed over. It felt smooth— creamy, even. He let the tip of his finger skim lightly, fascinated by the little lines and creases that he felt.

He remembered grabbing it many times as they ran from enemies intent on capturing them, or even simply when they Disapparated together from one place to another. How was it that up until now, he did not really know the feel of her hand clasping his? How was it, that despite knowing her for several years, there were still things about her that surprised him? Pictures of the three of them, scattered about her room… Her face as a child... Why she was so passionate about the things she cared about? How was it, that he hadn’t gotten to know her as well as he thought he had?

He was holding his best friend Hermione’s hand— the one who, time and time again, had been saving his neck both from mortal danger and the consequences his stupid decisions tended to have. Hermione, who stayed with him on the run, through the most difficult moments of his life.

            Without thinking, without even realizing it, he had turned Hermione’s hand over in his palm and was now running his fingers slowly over hers. He could feel every groove, every palm line that came under his fingertips. For a moment, he was lost.

            Was this what Ron feels when he holds her hand?

A hitch in Hermione’s breathing was what brought him back to the present, causing him to straighten up and blink furiously at the darkness around him. Without another word, he once again intertwined their hands and spun, dragging her along with him into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'd really appreciate it if you give your insights on the story so far; I'm trying to get as much feedback as I can so I can improve my writing and the story's plot, you see. Thanks.


	6. The White Cliffs of Dover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I haven’t actually been to the White Cliffs of Dover, so I hope you guys can forgive me for taking some liberties in describing it.

It was common knowledge among qualified wizards that the distance between one’s destination and point of origin greatly affects the ease at which one Apparates. It was therefore two heavily panting people that emerged out of thin air onto the top of a grassy cliff overlooking a wide expanse of water.

            Harry, being in much better shape due to his Auror training, recovered first. Quickly dropping Hermione’s arm, he strode over to what he deemed a suitable spot in the grass before attempting to busy himself with the contents of the picnic basket. He hid his face, trying his best not to think about what he had just done. He was sure Hermione would have some questions, and he could only hope to delay them if he could. Lifting the top of the wicker basket revealed a large, checkered tablecloth on top. In fact, the rest of the its contents were more than Harry had expected. Not only had the waiter included plates and silverware, he had also put in long-stemmed wine glasses and a couple of scented candles placed in tiny jars. Really, it could not have been clearer that romance was in mind when the basket was being packed. He made a mental note to return to Godric’s Hollow soon to thank the server for his thoughtfulness.

            The spot Harry chose was a tiny alcove in between two rocky outcrops that served both as an effective shelter as well as a barrier from unwanted eyes. Despite his confidence that they were protected from unwanted eyes, he thought it prudent to cast a bubble of protection over their position, which not only ensured that no passing Muggles would accidentally come upon them, but also protected them from the cold. He was shaking out the tablecloth, when he realized that Hermione had yet to make a sound. Turning wildly behind him lest he should see her passed out on the ground, he found her standing a little way near the edge of the cliff— far enough so as he was not particularly alarmed, but also relatively close so that he moved to pull her back.

            “Everything alright, Hermione?” he asked tentatively, making to touch her shoulder until the memory of her hand flashed into his mind. He quickly lowered his hand before she could notice.

            “Hermione?” he repeated, now slightly worried that he had done something wrong.

            After several moments, she spoke. “Harry— Harry, it’s beautiful here.”

            Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, to a mass of land where the water ended and the blanket of stars above them began. The wind had died down to a pleasant breeze, adding to the magic of the moment as it lightly rustled the grass around them. The moon’s light was slightly muted tonight, allowing the millions of tiny pinpricks of light to shine more brightly. It was breathtaking, and it was precisely why Harry thought it was worth long-distance Apparition to get here.

            “Where are we, Harry?” Her question came out as a breath, transfixed as she was in their surroundings. It looked like all thoughts of Harry caressing her hand were wiped from her mind, albeit temporarily. He breathed a sigh of relief. That would have to wait until he himself managed to dissect his actions later.

            “The White Cliffs of Dover,” Harry answered softly, “The Auror instructors brought us here several months ago for a training exercise.”

            “But it’s such a beautiful place for a bunch of burly Aurors to run and do push ups in,” she protested softly.

            Harry laughed. “As much as we want to keep our image manly and intimidating, Hermione, we still do enjoy a beautiful view. Besides, all these slopes and thick grass? It makes for a wicked jogging trail—I almost broke my neck tripping over that path over there and rolling down one of those steep inclines.”

            He pointed ruefully to what she could make out as a slightly overgrown trail that lined a highly raised outcrop to their far right.

“Also made for a perfect setting where they could discuss our relations with France,” he nodded towards the tiny manmade pinpricks of light shining across the strait. “Come on, I can’t wait to dig into that pie.”

He led the way back to the alcove. With two of them working this time, they made good time in setting up the contents of the basket around the tablecloth. In addition to the candles the server had given them, Hermione had conjured up lanterns that had her signature bluebell flames flickering cheerfully within. As they dug into the food (which was, for lack of better words, simply delicious), it was a while before they said anything much to each other save for complimenting the food. The pasta was rich, a burst of flavors that exploded on his tongue the moment it made contact. The pie’s flaky, golden crust crackling merrily as it was broken into to get to the true marvel that was its filling. And the treacle tart— it was indescribable, Harry thought, as he shoveled forkfuls of it into his mouth. Hermione had only had one slice of the tart, telling him that she was full and he could have the rest of it. And he did, thoroughly cleaning out the dish that it had been served on.

After a while, when they had finally settled down into a content and amiable silence, Harry reached for the unmarked bottle of wine and uncorked it with a wave of his wand.

“Wine?” he asked, already handing her a glass.

“But of course,” she said, smiling mischievously.

“To good company,” he said, raising his glass to clink with hers.

“To good company,” she repeated, her eyes warm.

He took a sip, raising his eyebrows in surprise at the flavours that met his tongue. The wine had a fresh, tangy flavor that prevented the liquid from coming off as too rich. Another sip allowed him to identify the taste of spiced fruit and even a trace of chocolate. It was nothing like any of the wines he had tasted before, and he found himself taking a deep draught from his glass before putting it down. Across from him, Hermione appeared to be having the same reaction he had.

“Wow,” she said, “this is _good._ We’ve got to go back and get some more.”

“There’s still a lot left in the bottle, you know,” he laughed.

She sighed contentedly. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a dinner like this, Harry. Thank you.”

She reached across their dirty dishes to touch his arm. “Really, I mean it. It’s been _ages_ since we’ve managed to spend time like this.”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, meeting her eyes briefly and looking away. “I— I missed you, you know. It wasn’t just Ron you cut off when you started to stay away.”

Hermione glanced at him dolefully. “I know. I’ve really missed you too— you’ve no idea how many times I wanted to send you a letter or show up after your training.”

            “So why didn’t you?”

            He reflected briefly that there was no anger there, he genuinely wanted to know why Hermione had felt that she should stay away— even from him.

            “Because I thought you’d choose Ron over me,” she smiled ruefully. “The pair of you— it was always the two of you from the start. He’s more fun to be with than I am, he has this huge family that I know you love being a part of— for Merlin’s sake, Harry, you’re engaged to his sister. I guess I was just afraid, you know, that if I told you my issues you’d shun me and take Ron’s side. Besides, I thought you’d tell him— or you know, try to do something to fix it like set us up or something. Even if you wouldn’t, I knew I’d be putting you in the position of having to choose. So I thought it would be better to stay away. I’m sorry.”

            There was a silence as Harry mulled her words over. It was exactly as he had thought in the graveyard earlier. She had thought that Ron meant more to Harry than she did. A wave of guilt washed over him, as he became painfully aware of how he himself had contributed to her fears. He had not reached out to her, choosing instead to stay at the Burrow and the relative warmth and safety of being surrounded by people who treated him as part of their family, unaware of the difficulties Hermione was going through. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for assuming what she thought was true.   

He swallowed. “I’m sorry, too. I know I should’ve tried harder— I should’ve made the time to see you, or send you owls. There’s really no excuse for that.”

            He hesitated before continuing to speak. “There’s something you should know, though.”

            She raised her eyebrows.

            “I’m as much your friend as I am Ron’s. I know I haven’t been acting the part, but I’m your best friend too, Hermione.”

            She blushed, her cheeks visibly reddening under the golden glow of the soft flames surrounding them.

It had been a very bemusing day for both of them, though neither wanted to admit it to the other. They so rarely had conversations like the ones they had that day, talks that led deep into the very foundations of their relationships with each other and the people that they cared for. Hermione had always been strangely cryptic about her relationship with Ron, and Harry preferred to push his emotions down instead of talking it out. Both found this strange turn rather refreshing and in fact, liberating, as bogged down as they were with the relationship troubles many people their age seemed to be facing.

            “You’ve stood by me for as long as I can remember. You’ve never turned your back on me, Hermione. Not when everyone thought I put my name in that goblet, nor when I went and put all our necks out on the line that night Sirius died,” he gave a pained expression and sighed. “Not even when we had to go running around the country and live off mushrooms and stuff.”

She rolled her eyes lightly, smiling in spite of herself. “Well, someone _had_ to go and save your sorry arse every time you got yourself into a scrape.”

            He chuckled, glad that the atmosphere around them was now considerably lighter. “Don’t you ever think about cutting me off again, okay? Or I’ll just show up at your house in the middle of the night again. You know, scare the neighbors and all.”

            “Sure, a skinny bloke with messy hair and round glasses. That’ll scare them right off,” she smirked, her face then shifting to an earnest expression. “To more nights like this.”

            He echoed her words, once again clinking his wine glass with hers.

            They spent another hour or so drinking until the contents of the wine bottle were finally emptied, the conversation turning to their work at the Ministry. Despite spending less time in the Ministry than Hermione due to his training, Harry was acquainted with it enough that he understood the references Hermione made and the people she talked about. As she only took an entry-level job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she was not allowed to come out to the field very often. Despite that, she rarely wanted for any action as there were always magical law violators being brought into the department and interrogated or fined. Because of Hermione’s reputation and status as a highly-valued worker, she was allowed to sit in during interrogations and such, scribbling furiously as she documented the scene in front of her. She was nothing if not persistent, despite having turned down the initial offer of working close with the Head of Department. She knew she wanted to be named Head eventually. She just wanted to make sure that she knew the department thoroughly before taking on such a daunting role.

            Harry, despite being just a trainee, was seeing much action himself. In addition to his Auror training, he was also allowed to go on what was considered low-level cases that the Auror Department deemed too menial for qualified Aurors. Not that these cases weren’t interesting in themselves. Harry could no longer remember how many times he had had to come home to the Burrow with his robes singed and his feet sore after spending an afternoon chasing after low-level criminals who fancied themselves to be Dark wizards in the making.

While most of the time, it only involved crashing through doors and immediately Body-binding anything and everything that tried to attack him, there were times when these cases turned downright nasty. What the department thought to be a regular inspection for Dark artifacts in Diagon Alley had led to an ambush by eight masked men who jumped on Harry and his two other comrades the moment they stepped into a tiny quill shop tucked into a hidden corner of the crowded street. Having had no time to call for reinforcements, Harry and his companions had to rely on their wits to escape as they were tied up in the shop’s basement. In the end, they had tricked an unwitting captor to meander too close, so that Harry managed to hit him in the knee and grab his wand with his teeth as his captor doubled over in pain. Finding that they couldn’t Disapparate, they had had to fight their way back towards Diagon Alley. What followed was a duel that ended with half the shop blown apart and the entirety of Diagon Alley on lockdown. While their superiors weren’t pleased that they had managed to let themselves be captured, it was hard to stay angry after Harry and the others had managed to capture all but two of their attackers.

Despite the relative peace that had followed the end of the Second Wizarding War, it seemed that there was an increasing problem with regards to the roaring Dark artifact trade. The more the Ministry confiscated them, the more Dark artifacts seemed to proliferate in the Wizarding black market as reported to them by moles employed by the Ministry. It was a problem that both of them worriedly conversed about, despite their initial attempts to avoid distressing topics of conversation.

“It’s getting late, isn’t it?” Hermione said, after a lull in their conversation had allowed them to take inventory of their surroundings. “Must be past midnight already.”

“It is,” Harry said, looking down at his watch.

“Time to go, then?” she said ruefully.

“I— I guess,” he muttered. They both got to their feet somewhat reluctantly. With a sweeping wave of Harry’s wand, what little remained of their feast vanished and the dishes and utensils flew back into the basket, with the picnic blanket settling gently on top. He made a note to himself to return to Godric’s hollow soon to return them, along with a generous tip to the waiter who had provided them with a better experience than he had been expecting.

“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“D-don’t you think it’s better that we Disapparate separately since we have separate destinations?” asked Hermione.

“Don’t be daft. I’m not leaving you until I see your front door close with you behind it,” he looked at her sternly. “It’s already past midnight.”

“I can take care of myself, as you very well know,” she said, but she gave him a small smile and moved closer to him as she reached to take his hand.

In the split second before their hands touched, Harry suddenly flashed to the memory of their entwined hands in the woods of Godric’s Hollow. How he had run his fingers across hers. How he could feel every light bump and callus brought about by her intense scribbling with a quill. How her breath had hitched when he ran his hands over her palm. He watched, wide-eyed, as Hermione brought her hand to his. He realized that he was holding his breath until he finally felt her touch.

Her fingers intertwined between his. Her hand calm and cool against his hot and sweaty palm. A lock of her hair brushing against his upper arm. The heady smell of her hair. He shook his head slightly, not quite understanding the internal reactions that had sprung to life in his head. He turned to look at her in spite of himself, and found her again staring in wonder at the horizon ahead. It was dark now, after they had extinguished the different lights they had lit. The only light that surrounded them now was the glow coming from above, and as he looked, he couldn’t help but notice how the starlight fell on her face and illuminated her features. Thick curls framing the side of her face that was visible to him; under the light, they almost looked blonde. Cheeks that were flushed, standing out from the rest of her pale face. Soft, amber eyes that never failed to express what she thought, whether she was shooting daggers with her eyes or otherwise looking at him knowingly. Full lips that were slightly parted as she continued to gaze at the thousands of tiny pinpricks of light above them.

            He swallowed, finally tearing his eyes away from her face and focusing very hard on the horizon before them.

            “Ready?” he said gruffly. Her hand tightened in response, causing him to take a sharp intake of breath.

            He was about to turn when he saw it. Still attempting to focus himself on the sky ahead, he caught the streak of light that blazed through the otherwise tranquil field of stars. Burning brightly as it went, it dissipated a second later.

            Hearing the soft gasp coming from Hermione beside him, he was sure she saw it too.

            “Harry! Did you see that? A meteor!” she exclaimed. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen one— or at least, one that hasn’t been summoned by magic!”

            Before he could move, she had dropped his hand and moved closer to the edge of the cliff. He followed, flexing his left hand as he went. He had felt the absence of her touch immediately.

            “There might be more coming!” she said, as she plunked herself down a large rock, wrapping her coat tightly around her. “Can— can we stay for just a little bit longer?”

            He smiled at her excitement. “Sure.”

            Noticing the light chill that had begun to permeate the air around them, he again set a protective bubble of warm air swirling around them then lowered himself down the rock beside her. They watched the sky in silence— not quite an awkward hush, but a companionable tranquility that could only exist between two people who have known each other for a long time. Maybe it was precisely that feeling of safety that gave Harry the courage to do what he did.

            He reached out slowly, cautiously. Despite himself, he still felt rather afraid. It felt as though he was venturing onto unknown territory. He had never taken her hand like this. Somehow, it was always Hermione who initiated physical affection between them— that was something he had written off as merely a part of her personality. Now, however, with all the uncertainties and doubt present with some of the most important relationships of his life, it seemed that the Hermione was the only real anchor left. He placed his palm gently on top of the back of her hand, appearing to stare determinedly at the sky when really, he was watching her reaction cautiously with his peripheral vision. What if she pulled away? What if things become awkward between them?

            She froze at his touch, eyes widening and lips parting softly. Lips of a deep rose color, bare and full. He watched, mesmerized, as she bit her bottom lip. Seconds had passed and she still hadn’t moved or said anything. He was starting to panic now. As he tried to determine the least conspicuous way to pull his hand away, she turned her hand so that they were now palm to palm, and entwined her fingers with his.

            Several emotions registered in his head at the same time: unbelievable relief, a blissful consciousness of her touch, and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance. It was an exhilarating mix of emotions, something he knew he would have to sort through later. He had not realized that he was holding his breath.

They stayed that way for the better part of an hour, not completely still, for every now and then one of them would lean back or graze a thumb over the other’s. It was the kind of peace that Harry had been needing; and despite the quiet about them, it felt as though many words were being said as though continued to marvel at the sky above them. In that moment, he was— overwhelmingly, almost laughably— grateful for the presence of Hermione Granger.

            Fifteen minutes later, more meteors had shown up, delighting Hermione to no end. Every time one sped through the sky, she would gasp and her eyes would widen in wonder until it was once again swallowed by the darkness. It was only a little over an hour later that they stood up to leave, arms never leaving their joined state.

Later, as Harry laid in bed in his room in Grimmauld Place, he thought over again to the way Hermione reacted to their first sighting of the meteor and her reactions to the rest. She never tired of them, looking at each new streak the way she did the first one.

 _Then again,_ Harry thought as he drifted slowly to unconsciousness, _maybe there were just some things that you couldn’t get enough of._


	7. Spells and Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have rewritten the ends of Chapters 5 and 6, as I found my writing too rushed and forced. The dates on which I’ve updated each chapter is indicated on top of them, so if you’ve already read Chapters 5 and 6 on or after August 28 and 30, respectively, then you need not read them again.
> 
> P. S. Much of my impression of Sirius’s character is influenced by both the books and the fic “Against the Moon” by Stoplight Delight. Do check it out, it’s a fantastic read.
> 
> P. P. S. This has been bugging me for months now, and I’d like to know what you guys think: Without Harry as their middle ground, what kind of friendship do you think Ron and Hermione would have had? Would they even be friends? Or, more accurately, what do you think was the nature of Ron and Hermione’s friendship in relation to each other, and each other only (no Harry involved)?
> 
> P. P. P. S. Nervous about this one.

Chapter 7: Spells and Surprises

Harry came into consciousness the next morning with an unexplainable sense of calm content. Smiling slightly, he opened his eyes, taking a moment to register the scarlet Gryffindor banner placed directly above his bed. It took him several seconds to register where he was— Sirius’s old room in Number Twelve. A look at the old Muggle alarm clock beside him said it was only turning eight in the morning. Still staring idly at the banner above him, he watched amusedly as the embroidered golden lion alternated between appearing to roar ferociously (no sound came out) and pausing to lick its fur.

Sitting up, he paused to take inventory of his surroundings. A quick look around the room told him that Kreacher had been in to tidy. The usual assortment of things that were cluttered on his nightstand were now arranged neatly and there were no longer any clothes piled haphazardly on the armchair across the room. Harry suspected that they were now hanging freshly laundered inside the cavernous closet located in the corner.

Shelves that lined one side of the room were crammed with an assortment of Defense Against the Dark Arts books and little Muggle assortments and knick-knacks, most of which belonged to Sirius in his youth. Sirius had hidden his Muggle bits and bobs so well that it had taken Harry a fall and a slight concussion to stumble upon them.

 

On one of his mad cleaning and renovating phases shortly after the war, Harry had been attempting to clear out the wardrobe in his room when a particularly clumpy trash bag had remained stubbornly stuck to one of the top shelves. Resolving to remove it by hand instead of continuing to attempt levitation, he had climbed the shelves to attempt and pull the bag towards him. Overshooting his strength, he had lost his balance and fell backwards, his head hitting the floor and the bag landing heavily on top of him. He laid there for a few seconds, seeing stars. As he turned to gingerly feel the sore spot, he noticed a tiny knob protruding from underneath one of the shelves. Pulling on it had caused a little wooden panel to slide open, revealing a dismantled alarm clock, several light bulbs and screws, a motorcycle’s headlight, and— unexplainably— a minuscule jack-in-the-box. The initials G. R. were carved delicately on its underside. With no one left to ask about it, he had placed it on his bedside table and put the rest on the shelves of his room.

 

That day was only the first of many he had spent attempting to “fix” Number Twelve. Despite spending a lot of time at the Burrow after the war, Harry had spent weeks whipping Grimmauld Place back into better shape. With Kreacher by his side, he (and sometimes Hermione and the Weasleys) finished cleaning and refurbishing the house from top to bottom. Gone were the gloomy (and sometimes disturbing) remainders of the extravagant Black home, and in their place were furniture and décor that Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had picked out, with occasional input from Fleur. The lamps in the hallway now gave off warm golden light, and the elf heads that once hung upon the walls had been relocated to Kreacher’s room on the second floor (as he had wanted to take them), and the severed troll’s leg that once served as an umbrella stand had been unceremoniously kicked down and Vanished by Ron. The drawing room was now warm and cheery, with the thick drapes removed and replaced instead by thin, bright curtains that allowed sunlight to stream in every morning. The Black family tapestry had been exiled to a dusty corner in the attic, along with a few other Black possessions that Kreacher valued too much to be thrown away. 

Due to the Permanent Sticking Charm placed upon Walburga Black’s portrait, Harry and the others had to look for other means of covering it up. It had taken a while, and several weeks of continuing to tiptoe around the stairs, but in the end the waiting had been worth it. A new tapestry now hung over the reviled portrait of Sirius’s mother; a tapestry that, when it had first been unveiled, had brought tears to the eyes of everyone in the room. Even Mrs. Weasley, who had supervised the little group of Hogwarts house elves who had made it, had sobbed quietly as she guided it to hang upon the wall with her wand.

            Along with a permanent Muffling Charm, woven on its threads were the images of Order and Dumbledore’s Army members who had died at the hands of Voldemort and his followers. James Potter was roaring with laughter on the upper-right, an arm around Lily as she rolled her eyes at Sirius, who was ruffling Lupin’s hair as the latter held onto Tonks’ hand. Tonks’ hair and nose seemed to change gradually. Mad-Eye, who still had his nose, was squinting suspiciously at the onlookers. Frank and Alice Longbottom were smiling serenely in a corner. Colin Creevey was everywhere, disappearing off one side and reappearing on another, startling a cluster of older Order members when his little woven camera emitted a burst of white thread as he took their picture. Lavender Brown, whose hair and make-up seemed to change everyday, was the only one who seemed to really pose for the camera. Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore were talking quietly together, and to the side was a red-headed young man who was grinning mischievously at everything, as though something was about to happen and only he was the one who knew about it.

            The tapestry, which took several weeks to complete, was the foundation upon which other similar memorials were built. After having visited Grimmauld Place for dinner, Kingsley Shacklebolt— still the current prime minister— had made it a personal project to replace the grotesque fountain built in the Ministry Atrium by Pius Thicknesse and the other Death Eaters who had infilitrated the Ministry. With the whole government in chaos and disarray in the weeks that followed the defeat of Voldemort, no one had had the time to take down the enormous structure. The most that had been done was the raising of four metal walls that covered the fountain’s reviling façade. While this certainly hid it from the eyes of everyone that passed through, its presence still served as a sour reminder of the war and how it easy it had been to infiltrate the Ministry— what was supposed to have been Wizarding Britain’s highest and most powerful body of authority.

And so, the construction of a new memorial took place. Ministry employees would come to work every morning to already hear loud bangs and stone grinding behind a metal walls that had been put up to conceal the construction. The Minister would be seen flitting in and out many times during the day, checking up on the wizard architects and builders he had commissioned to work on it.

Finally, after several months, a public event had been held at the Atrium to unveil the finished work. A crowd of fifty thousand waited with bated breath as the Minister raised his wand and the walls that had been concealing the new memorial sank downwards and vanished. A giant, heptagonal memorial had been erected in the middle of the Atrium, made almost entirely of gold. Flecks of silver and bronze created the illusion that its surface was rippling, and on the raised platform surrounding it, hundreds of names shone with light— names of all the wizards and Muggles that had become victims and casualties of Voldemort’s dangerous crusade. Their names were interspersed together— it neither mattered who was a wizard nor a Muggle, whether a kid or an adult, what mattered was that they all had their lives taken from them. On each of the memorial’s seven faces, the image of a victim was emblazoned, along with his name and a short message of his life, from his loved ones. The images switched every few minutes, fading into new faces and new messages.

The crowd consisted not only of reporters and Ministry officials but also the family and friends of every victim honored that day. Harry, who had been sitting in front with the rest of the Weasleys, had felt a burning in his eyes as he looked at Sirius’ smiling face etched upon the gold surface. Similar reactions were going through the magical fold and Muggles who were mingled in the crowd. The Minister had made sure of that— that the loved ones of all those who had died be fully informed, and that they be there on the occasion. It was one of the reasons why Kingsley Shacklebolt still remained a hugely popular Minister of Magic.

Resolving to get up, Harry strode out of his bedroom to door of the one across the landing, where Regulus Black’s bedroom used to be. He knocked lightly. There was no sound that came from within. He then hurried downstairs, padding down the winding narrow staircase barefoot. As he swung open the door to the kitchen, he was disappointed to see that it was empty except for Kreacher, who was shining an already gleaming frying pan.

“Good morning, Master Harry,” Kreacher put down the pan and bowed deeply. “What would Master be liking for his breakfast today?”

“Toast would be fine. Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said, heavily plopping down the bench. “Has Hermione left already?”

“Yes, Master. She wished me to give this to Master,” Kreacher handed him a note.

_Harry— Thanks for last night. Left for the office. Hope all goes well with Ginny._

He swallowed his disappointment. He also pushed down his apprehension. He had forgotten that he had promised her last night that he was going to talk to Ginny today. Merlin knows how that’s going to turn out.

But first, he needed to calm down. Grabbing the rest of the toast and Hermione’s note, he ran back upstairs.

_ooo_

“Mr. Potter!”

“Good morning, Yvette,” Harry chirped, quickening his stride.

The blonde witch sitting behind the reception desk scrambled to her feet as he tried to hurry across the lobby without actually looking like he was running.

“Mr. Potter! I didn’t know you would be here today— Lieutenant Haller never said— you’re supposed to be on leave!”

“And I am, I just want to get one day of training in,” Harry answered innocently, as he struggled to get past Yvette, who was now bodily attempting to waylay him from going down the hall to the locker rooms.

“But the Lieutenant said not to let you in,” Yvette panted.

“Where _is_ the Lieutenant?” Harry asked, grateful for his instructor’s absence.

“On assignment in Bristol— oh!” Yvette started in surprised, for Harry had finally managed to sidestep her and had sprinted inside. Between the state of the Auror locker rooms and facing Haller’s wrath, Yvette decided to take her chances with Haller.

_One obstacle down,_ Harry thought as he retrieved his training clothes from his locker. This was the usual scene that welcomed Harry on the first few times he had attempted to go to training in the past month. Yvette would attempt to stop him, and Haller would then come out from training and ask that he leave. This was the farthest he had gotten.

It was only after pulling his shirt over his head that before Harry realized that everyone else in the locker room was staring at him. The door to the training area swung open with a bang.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Potter?”

“Bates! How’ve you been, mate?” Harry pumped his friend’s hand vigorously. Gregory Bates was a tall, hulking blonde with whom Harry and Ron had first entered the Auror Academy with.

“Training’s been dull without you, Potter. I don’t have nearly as many bruises now than when you were around,” Bates chortled. “Now let me repeat myself— what the bloody hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be choosing color palettes and polishing silver of some sort?”

“See I was, but then I remembered how easy you poor blokes would be having without me around,” he smiled cheekily as his reply was met with jeers and laughing from all around the room.

“Don’t get so cocky, Potter, I seem to remember getting a few spells in,” Bates laughed.

“Yeah, dude. Remember the time you had to spend the night in the infirmary because of that nasty knee hex?”

Harry recognized the American twang as Emenitus Ryder emerged from behind Bates. He was one of the newer inductees, only having joined the Auror Academy a year after Harry, Ron, and Bates had started. Because he had just immigrated to Britain from America, they had taken it upon themselves to give Ryder a proper introduction to Britain. Several drunken nights and an invisible kneazle later, Ryder had completed their group. A few months later, Ron had decided to leave to work with George at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes instead, leaving the three of them to finish their training for their induction.

“Ryder!” Harry clapped him on the back in greeting before glaring dolefully at Bates. “Yeah, I remember. They haven’t felt the same since, mate.”

“Can’t say I’m too sorry,” Bates chuckled.

“I can’t believe you got past Yvette, man. You know how Haller is about you coming here to train,” Ryder said, opening his locker and pulling off his sweat-soaked T-shirt. “How’re preparations coming along, anyway? Ginny let you help yet?”

Ryder and Bates had met Ginny a few times during dinner at the Burrow and had taken a liking to her immediately. Not only was Ginny a professional Quidditch player for one of the best teams in the league, she had also drunk them all under the table during Ron’s last birthday celebration.

Harry sighed. Yet another two people he’d be disappointing after today.

“Going okay, I guess,” he shrugged.

“Well, don’t sound too excited about it—mate, you know you could so much worse than Ginny Weasley, Holyhead Harpy and firewhisky legend, right?”

Harry knew. He had to change the subject— fast. “So— are you guys done with dueling for the day or can you squeeze a last one in for me?”

The two glanced at each other and shrugged. “Why not? Haller’s not around to push the schedule, anyway.”

“Thank my lucky stars,” Harry muttered, making the other two laugh.

As they pushed open the door to the training hall, Harry noticed more trainees shooting him furtive looks and muttering to each other. Far too used to this, he ignored them. He supposed this was about him being on leave again.

From the end of the hall, loud yells and bangs could be heard coming from one of the dueling rooms. 

“Damn, the new guy really knows his stuff, eh, Bates? Almost broke my jaw the other day,” Ryder remarked. “Lucky I managed to get in that Expelliarmus or I’d have failed that one.”

Harry’s interest was piqued. “There’s a new recruit?”

“Yeah, he’s really good at dueling too—almost as good as you. He’s the only new recruit who’s been allowed to take dueling with us second years. Seems a bit standoffish, though. Likes to keep to himself. Bates, do you remember--?”

“In here, guys,” Bates interrupted, pulling open the door to an empty room. “Might want to get a few stretches in before we start, Potter. Wouldn’t want to do yourself an injury now. Ryder, a word?”

Harry nodded, stretching and jogging around the room while Bates and Ryder conversed in low tones by the door. After a few rounds, the two moved toward him, Ryder looking peculiarly chastened.

Harry looked at Ryder curiously. “You alright?”

“Sure. Listen, Bates and I were talking— you wouldn’t mind both of us against you, do you?”

“Are you joking? It’s even better than what I’d expected to get today!” Harry grinned. “Come on, I need the exercise.”

He ran to the other side of the room, his body automatically forming the familiar stance. Ryder and Bates did the same from the opposite side of the room.

            Harry surveyed his friends, trying to decide which of them he should attack first. Ryder, he decided. His friend’s legs were spread too far apart for him to move quickly.

            He raised an eyebrow, grinning slyly as he bowed. His opponents did the same, both of them looking wary now.

            “Ready?”

            They nodded, tightening their grips on their wands.

            Harry struck first. _Levicorpus!_

A second later, Ryder was dangling upside-down in the air and yelling indignantly. Knowing he only had moments, Harry turned his attention to Bates, who was now firing spell after spell at him.

            Harry dodged, shooting back hexes as he struggled to find a hole in his friend’s defense.

            “ _Stupefy!”_

“ _Tarantallegra!”_

_“Protego!”_

Bates growled in frustration as Harry deflected his spell, sending it shooting off to the side where it hit the wall. Harry fired back a series of orange bursts that ricocheted off the floor at Bates’ feet as he sprinted out of harm’s way.

Harry lost himself in the fight, his body automatically moving, his mind immediately sending spell after spell at his opponents as Ryder freed himself and rejoined the fight. He _missed_ this— the adrenaline rush, the pumping in his veins. It was the perfect way to relieve his frustration and pent-up emotions about Ginny— and Hermione.

            _I might as well admit it,_ Harry thought as he rolled to avoid Bates’ Leg-Locker Curse and fired off a Disarming Charm in retaliation. His night with Hermione had left a lot for him to think about, and despite his best efforts, the image of her under the moonlight had been permanently branded onto his brain. The way the breeze rippled her hair, and how the light illuminated her face. Not only that, he also found himself continuously flexing his hand, like it felt different somehow. He knew it was stupid to dwell on it for too long, but before he knew it, a full-fledged internal argument had sprung to life in his head.

            _You held hands. So what?_

_It felt… weird._

_Weird how?_

_Not weird, different._

_You’ve taken her hand many times before. What makes this time different?_

_Erm… well… it felt like the first time. The first time I actually paid attention._

_So you paid attention. What did it feel like?_

_It felt… good. Really good._

_Why?_

_Dunno. I felt… accepted. Loved._

_Loved, huh?_

_No! Not that like that. It can’t be like that._

_Why not?_

_Because! She’s Hermione._

            _Congratulations. All you’ve managed to do is establish that Hermione is Hermione._

_You know what I mean. She’s_ Hermione. _My best friend. The girlfriend of my other best friend. Whose sister is my fiancée._

He exhaled loudly. His life was a mess. _He_ was a mess. His confusion about Ginny might have significantly dissipated, but now it was replaced with troubling thoughts about his best friend.

Taking aim, he fired a Stinging Hex at Bates, catching him in the leg. Swearing loudly, the latter retaliated with a wildly aimed jet of water that hit the wall behind him.

_So if it wasn’t romantic, what was it?_

_Dunno. Can’t two best friends just hold hands and not make a big deal out of it?_

_Well, yeah. But the holding hands thing isn’t the only thing that’s bothering you, is it?_

            Hermione’s face flashed into his mind again, like it had a thousand times since this morning. He shook his head violently, and Bates and Ryder looked at him in alarm.

            “Potter…?”

            “It’s nothing, come on! _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

            And again, they were off. Bates’ water jets soaked the floor, making it dangerously slippery. Harry’s thoughts resumed.

            _She… she looked different!_

_Here we are again with “different”. Expand on “different”._

_She looked… beautiful._

_But you always knew she was beautiful._

It was true. He always knew his best friend was attractive in the way that most men knew a woman was attractive. However, this was the first time he had actually dwelled on it for more than a few passing thoughts.

            _Yes. But it’s— it’s like last night she was especially beautiful. The way she looked at those meteors… She was captivated,_ I _was captivated._

_So maybe it’s a one-time thing. You were sad, you were lonely, she listened to you about Ginny and the wedding. Maybe that’s it._

_Yeah, that’s probably it. Yeah. I was sad, I was confused, and she was there. But you know what’s funny?_

_What?_

_I may have been sad, but that was the most honest I’ve felt in months._

            He paused in surprise, marveling at his admission. He knew it was true.

            _FWOOSH._

            Harry was blasted off his feet and thrown backwards, feeling as though he was hit in the face with a sledgehammer.

            When the shock wore off, he found himself staring at the ceiling dazedly. Sitting up, he found that he was ten feet away from where he originally stood, drenched to the bone. Ryder and Bates were walking toward him, both of them laughing.

            “Damn, Bates, that was _nice!_ Must’ve thrown him about ten feet!” Ryder exclaimed. “You okay, Potter?”

            “Yeah,” Harry replied, rubbing his cheek where the spell hit him. “Nice hit, Bates. You and your water.”

            “Heh. Gotta work on my aim, though. Barely hit you at all.”

            “You did fine. You’re getting good at dodging, too. You too, Ryder.”

            Harry let his friends help him up, and together they restored the dueling room to its original state.

_ooo_

            It was noon when Harry finally made his way back indoors after jogging five miles around the training hall’s running track. Bates and Ryder had been on the other side of the building for classes, but had also been released in time for them to join Harry for lunch.

            As they entered the cavernous dining hall, the crowd had once again started whispering amongst each other. Harry, despite being used to such behavior when he entered rooms, felt his self-consciousness rise. Did Haller make sure _everyone_ knew he wasn’t supposed to be training while on leave?

            Ignoring the stares, Harry made his way to the end of the queue, his friends behind him. Several minutes later, their trays laden with food, they made their way to their usual table on the far side of the dining hall. Plunking down his tray, Harry took a huge bite of his sandwich before he was even fully seated.

            Bates raised an eyebrow. “Hungry?”

            “Famished.”

            “Amen to that.” Ryder raised his own sandwich, which he had just unwrapped, and clunked it against Harry’s like it was a bottle of butterbeer. “I think I could eat a hippogriff, man. You wouldn’t believe what Hastings had us doing for Disguise and Concealment.”

            The trio continued talking until Harry, who was about to ask if how the class’ Metamorphmagus fared, noticed that the entire hall had fallen silent.

            Surveying the room, he once again saw that all faces were turned to their table. Confused, he turned to his friends to ask what was going on. He never got the chance.

            Someone had suddenly lowered a tray beside his, and before Harry could look up, he heard a jarringly familiar drawling voice.

            “Potter.”


	8. Draco Malfoy

Chapter 8: Draco Malfoy

          Harry froze. It was a voice that he had not heard for the better part of two years, yet he knew he could have placed it anywhere. It was almost as if he was in the Great Hall again, hearing his name shouted sneeringly from across the room. Yet this was not the Great Hall, and for once, there was no trace of malice in the way Harry’s last name had been spoken. Yet, how was it possible? _Him,_ here?

Harry looked up slowly, his eyes traveling from the tray overflowing with food, to the lightly tanned hands that gripped it, moving upward until they finally alighted on his old nemesis’s face. Harry would have recognized Draco Malfoy anywhere, yet it also took him several moments to fully take in the person standing beside him. Malfoy was now taller than when Harry had last seen him, and more sturdily built. Instead of the pale face that had used to invoke Harry with much contempt, his face now bore the tanned complexion of someone who spent a lot of his time outdoors. His hair, which used to be painstakingly coiffed in their school days, was now longer than Harry had ever seen it and was hanging damp from a shower.

          _“Malfoy?”_

          Malfoy raised his eyebrows at him and lowered himself smoothly onto the seat beside Harry’s.

          “What—?” Harry started, then stopped after noticing Malfoy had on the same regulation training uniform that Harry and his friends were wearing. _Was Malfoy training to be an Auror?_

          “You two know each other?” Ryder cut in, glancing between Harry and Malfoy. Malfoy was smiling slightly, looking like he was enjoying Harry’s discomfort.

          Malfoy glanced across the table to Harry’s friends. He held his hand out to Bates, who was watching him warily.

          “Draco Malfoy.”

          “I know,” Bates muttered under his breath and shook Malfoy’s hand cautiously. “Gregory Bates.”

          Malfoy turned to Ryder. “You’re the one I dueled with the other day, aren’t you?  Nice disarm, that was.”

          Harry, who seemed to have lost his ability for speech, choked. Since when did Malfoy give out compliments?

          Ryder, who was looking at the newcomer with great interest, beamed at the comment and also shook hands with Malfoy. “Hey, thanks! You were some opponent yourself. Emenitus Ryder.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy grinned, now busying himself with his lunch.

          It was the most surreal thing that had happened to Harry in a long time. Draco Malfoy was eating lunch with him in a crowded cafeteria full of the country’s future Aurors, and acting like it was the most natural thing in the world. Harry gulped down mouthfuls of water for something to do. Questions raced through his mind. What was he doing here? How was he even allowed to be here?

          Resurfacing from behind his goblet, he finally blurted out, “Are you really going to eat all that?”

          All three of his companions turned to look at him. Malfoy’s tray was overcrowded with food. An entire flagon of pumpkin juice, an apple, two bananas, a sandwich, a salad, and a large bowl of stew were fighting for position. He also had a couple of biscuits balanced on top of the sandwich.

          “Yeah,” Malfoy looked at him defensively. “Duel practice is hard work. Least I could do is get myself some proper sustenance, Potter.”

          With that, he picked up a spoon and began eating the stew with gusto.

          “Yeah, Harry. Lay off the guy,” Ryder said. Harry raised his eyebrows at him.

“So,” Ryder leaned forward excitedly. “Am I supposed to know who you are? I mean, it’s obvious everyone here knows you, you’re literally all people have been whispering about since you’ve arrived. No one would tell me anything though, not even Bates.”

“Hey, Haller told us not to gossip about him!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ryder frowned, but turned back to Malfoy. “Are you famous? Everyone knows you, and you and Potter seem to know each other, so I’m guessing you two know each other from school.”

“Ryder—” Harry began, but his friend was on a roll.

“I bet you’re one of the people who fought in the war! Malfoy… _Malfoy_ … Pretty sure I’ve heard that name somewhere before, but jeez, they pelt us with so many names during class that I forget almost all of them. Kinda hard when you’re from a whole other country and all. You only tend to remember the big stuff.”

He continued to look at Malfoy expectantly.

Harry glanced at Malfoy tensely, wondering what he would make of Ryder’s brashness. Malfoy had finished the stew and was now serenely pouring himself a goblet of pumpkin juice.

“I was a Death Eater,” Malfoy said calmly, as though he was merely telling Ryder his age. “My whole family were Death Eaters.”

Ryder blinked. “ _What?”_

“You heard me.”

Comprehension was slowly dawning on Ryder’s face. “Lucius Malfoy. You’re his son.”

“Correct.”

“Your father attacked Harry and Ron and the others in the Department of Mysteries. Your house was the Death Eaters’ headquarters during the war. Bellatrix Lestrange was your fucking aunt!”

“Yes.”

“What— but—how?” Ryder was now looking wildly at Harry and Bates. To Bates, he hissed. “How could you not tell me something like this?”

Bates shrugged. “Couldn’t have you telling Potter now, could I?”

It was Harry’s turn to react. “What do you mean you couldn’t have Ryder telling me?”

Bates grimaced apologetically. “Well, Haller didn’t really want us telling you your old archenemy was undergoing Auror training. He thought you would come marching up here and have him tossed out, I guess. To be quite honest, you’re handling this much more calmly than I thought you would.”

“He’s got a point, Potter. Thought you’d throw me to the floor and start hexing me, really.” Malfoy raised his eyebrows at him questioningly. “I know that’s what the rest of them want to happen.”

He jerked his head back towards the rest of the dining hall. Many of the students had gone back to their own conversations, yet a handful were still watching them intently.

Malfoy smirked, and continued. “Shame. Have to admit, that’s one of the reasons why I came over here to begin with. Wanted to see if I could still get under your skin. Lose that quick temper of yours?”

It was precisely the familiar smirk that brought said temper to flare up immediately.

“As if you ever got under my skin!” Harry snapped.

To his surprise, Malfoy laughed. “There it is.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Disgruntled, Harry picked up his sandwich and continued eating.

He supposed it was natural, that everyone around them expected them to revert back to how they were during their school days. Like many other details of Harry’s life, his rivalry with Draco Malfoy in their school years was widely known. Everyone knew about their hatred for each other. Gossip was still a favorite wizarding pastime, and so many details of Harry’s life and relationships had been picked over and embroidered again and again that most people were no longer quite sure what was true. Most of the time, Harry made no move to correct them. He supposed it would be far easier to argue and take jabs at each other rather, giving everybody the satisfaction of being right about what they thought they knew.

The truth was, he wasn’t quite sure about what to make of the Malfoy beside him, who seemed quite different from both the boy he used to scuffle with, and the pale, scared teenager who looked him in the face when Harry and his friends were dragged to his family’s manor to be identified and killed.

“Wait, I still don’t get it,” Ryder said sharply, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “Why the hell are you here, then?”

Malfoy settled himself comfortably in his chair, having finished both the stew and the sandwich, and began peeling a banana.

“Well, given your current problems about the Dark artifacts trade, and my… _ahem_ , background… why do you think?”

“They’re using you as an informant,” Harry’s eyes widened. Of course. Who else could be more perfect for the job other than Draco Malfoy, who grew up in a manor full of said artifacts, who knew the tricks and main players of the trade?

“Well, you always were a snitch. That doesn’t explain why you’re training,” Harry said.

“I told them the only way I would give them information was if they let me train,” Malfoy replied.

“And they just _let_ you?” Ryder said in disbelief.

Bates had been remarkably quiet, but now he spoke. “You don’t get it, Ryder. The situation’s getting damn serious. The Auror Department’s supposed to have about a hundred informants now, and yet, they’re still getting nowhere near the main supply of the artifacts. They’re starting to trickle out into the Muggle world, disguised as exotic trinkets and museum pieces. More and more people are getting hurt, and the Minister’s leaning heavily on our department to fix it. I suppose the Chief’s getting desperate. Desperate enough to hire him, at least.”

Malfoy was now looking at Bates with renewed interest. “You’re a lot more perceptive than you look.”

“But why train? Wouldn’t you rather get paid? Why go to all this trouble when I know for a fact that you and your mother have barely two Galleons to rub together?”

An unpleasant expression rippled on Malfoy’s face, disappearing after a second or so. “That’s none of your business. If you’ll excuse me.”

          He stood abruptly, taking them all aback. He grabbed his tray, some of the food on it still untouched, and stalked away. They watched him dump his tray at the designated area, and walk out of the room.

          “Great going, Bates.” Ryder muttered.

          “What?” Bates said defensively.

          “Why’d you have to ask him that? He was going to tell us everything!”

          “What gave you that idea? He barely told us anything!”

          “Why’d you have to go bringing up his mother? Don’t you know how some people don’t like talking about their family?”

          “As if you care about his feelings, you just want gossip!”

          Harry picked up his sandwich. Days like this, it was almost too easy to drown them out automatically.

          Why _did_ Malfoy choose to train? What was in it for him? Would the Department let him go on raids with them? And most importantly, could he be trusted?

_ooo_

               After lunch, Bates and Ryder had to go off to their respective classes, and since Harry was in no mood to sit in Potions or Defense Tactics, he supposed it was time to leave and talk to Ginny. He dragged himself to the locker room with a heavy heart, lost in his thoughts. The idea of talking to Ginny filled him with dread. How was he supposed to start? After today, would he still be welcome in the Weasleys’ household, or would they all hate him for breaking their beloved daughter’s heart?

          It was quite funny, really. He had worked himself up to a rage at Hermione yesterday, because she was afraid to tell Ron the truth for fear of losing the Weasleys. He was no better, it turns out. He was just as terrified of losing them.

          _Bang._

          The slam of a locker door startled Harry out of his reverie. Looking around his immediate vicinity, he could see no one else in the locker room with him.

          “Hello? Somebody there?” Harry called out.

          “Potter?”

          “Malfoy?”

          Malfoy emerged from behind the wall of lockers on which Harry’s was located, looking ready to leave.

          “Don’t you have class to go to?” Harry asked.

          “Not quite. See, they might let me go to dueling practice and all, but I don’t think they trust me enough to impart their precious Auror tactics to me just yet.” Malfoy smirked. “Quite sensible of them, really.”

          “Are you saying we shouldn’t trust you?”

          “No, I’m saying that I wouldn’t trust me just yet, either. Would be pretty stupid for a bunch of Aurors to do.”

          “Pretty stupid, yeah.” Harry grunted, turning back to his locker.

          Silence fell upon them for so long. Had Malfoy left the room? Harry  was too proud to look behind him and check. It didn’t matter anyway, because he heard Malfoy clear his throat before speaking.

“I’m going to go and get a drink.”

“Mmm.” Why was Malfoy telling him this?

“Would you like to come with me?”

          Harry almost hit his face on his locker door as he turned, sure he had heard Malfoy wrong.

          “Sorry?” Harry said blankly.

          “I asked if you wanted to get a drink,” Malfoy repeated slowly, already looking like he was regretting his invitation.

          On any other day, Harry would have scrambled to look for an excuse, or would have flat-out refused. There was something in Malfoy’s face, however, that made Harry nod in spite of himself.

          “Give me a minute.”

          He tried not to notice how Malfoy relaxed visibly at his words.

The Malfoy he knew at school would simply have asked confidently, sure that his invitation would be accepted. But now, it seemed that Malfoy was quite unsure and vulnerable, regretting that he had put himself in a position to be rejected.

          They both walked out into the building’s lobby moments later, trying not to notice Yvette’s wide eyes as she saw them together.

          “Bye, Yvette. Thanks for not going after me this morning,” Harry grinned. He made for the front door, Malfoy following behind him quietly, when Yvette cleared her throat.

          “Mr. Malfoy?”

          Malfoy halted, sighing resignedly. Pulling out his wand from inside his sleeve, he handed it to her, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

          Then he spun around, and marched out the front door, leaving Harry standing in the middle of the lobby.

          “Potter, are you coming or what?” Came the yell from outside.

          Harry hurried after him, hastily muttering another goodbye to Yvette.

          When he got outside, Malfoy was standing with his back to him.

In a determinedly light voice, Harry said, “Come on. I know a place.”

          Sighing, Malfoy finally turned to look at him, his face still flushed with humiliation.

          “I’d rather we go to mine,” he tried for a smile, but it only ended up looking like a grimace. “It isn’t far from here, would you mind walking?”

          Harry shook his head. Together, he and Malfoy set off walking down the long path to the main road.

          They walked in silence, still quite unused to situations where neither of them were making snide remarks at each other. The early afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. Twigs and gravel crunched under their boots as they went, filling the otherwise awkward and tense silence that permeated the air around them.

          Harry couldn’t help but wonder why Malfoy had asked him to get a drink, or even sit at his table in the dining hall. Surely it would have saved both of them a whole lot of awkwardness if they both just ignored each other? Even merely nodding every now and then would have been enough.

Glancing at Malfoy from the corner of his eye, he searched the latter’s face keenly. Malfoy’s eyes were trained straight ahead, where the busy thoroughfare was already visible and Muggle vehicles were roaring past. He realized that Malfoy’s expression reminded him of Hermione’s yesterday afternoon, when they had both walked out of the graveyard together.

Malfoy was lonely.

It was a hard concept to wrap his head around, as he was unused to feeling any form of sympathy towards Malfoy. But why else would Malfoy risk losing face in front of Harry and an entire room of onlookers? Why else would he ask Harry for a drink, when it was highly unlikely that Harry would say yes? And why would he allow Harry to witness him return his wand to Yvette, when it was quite obvious that it was a very humiliating experience for Malfoy to go through?

Draco Malfoy was lonely, and to make things more surreal for Harry, it was his company that Malfoy was seeking.

“Malfoy?” Harry ventured.

“Yeah?” was the gruff reply.

“Where’d you go?”

“What?”

“Where’d you go? You know… after the trial.”

Malfoy blinked. Harry immediately regretted opening his mouth.

Like many of the other Death Eaters’, the Malfoys’ joint trial took place two months after the battle. It took two months because it had taken the Ministry a painfully long time to clean itself up and sort itself out after the chaos that Voldemort’s regime had brought. Kingsley Shacklebolt was named acting Minister of Magic, yes, but many other Heads of Department and members of the Wizengamot were dead, missing or under the Imperius Curse. Finally, after several weeks of meetings and conferences, the Ministry was finally ready for trials.

In the Malfoys’ trial, Harry sat before the Wizengamot and many members of the press, and testified. He talked of how Draco had attempted to kill Dumbledore several times, nearly killing Ron and Katie Bell as collateral damage. He also described Lucius’s presence in the visions he had had from Voldemort’s perspective, and how the Malfoys had kept Ollivander and Luna locked up in their cellar for the better part of five months. On the other hand, he also mentioned that Draco had not turned him and his friends over to his father and aunt after they had been dragged to their manor, and how his mother had lied to Voldemort about Harry dying. In the end, it had been ruled that Lucius Malfoy would be given a life sentence in Azkaban, and Draco and his mother would be stripped of their wands and would not be allowed to use magic for seven years. Draco was given a lighter sentence than he should have because he was not of age at the time of Ron’s and Katie’s demise. All their gold and property were also to be surrendered to the Ministry as compensation for their crimes. Throughout the trial, Lucius and Narcissa had kept their heads held high, unflinching as their sentences were given. Draco, on the other hand, had remained slumped in his chair, looking down and refusing to look at anybody.

Judging from how freely he had talked about his family’s crimes to Ryder earlier, Harry had thought Malfoy had already come to accept his family’s fate.

Clearly, his assumptions were wrong. Looking at Malfoy’s startled face, he could only think that the latter was reliving the moment the crowd had leapt up to cheer and celebrate his family’s demise. Once again, Harry regretted mentioning the trial.

Malfoy doubled his pace.

Learning his lesson, Harry followed after him and kept his mouth shut. They had finally reached the main road.

“This way,” Malfoy gestured for Harry to follow him. As they walked, Harry was surprised to realize how well Malfoy blended with the Muggles passing them. Harry had not noticed it before, but Malfoy was wearing jeans and a denim kacket.

To further add to Harry’s befuddlement, Malfoy didn’t lead him to any of the places most of the Auror recruits haunted in the evenings, and instead led him to a tiny Muggle pub located a few streets away.

The bell tinkled as Malfoy pushed the door open. The lone bartender nodded to them as they walked in, and continued wiping the already spotless countertop. They settled themselves on the far side of the bar.

“Ever had a beer, Potter?”

“Er… no,” Harry replied, feeling awkward. “Is it any different from butterbeer?”

Malfoy laughed, and gestured to the bartender. “Two beers, Seb.”

Moments later, a bottle of cold beer was placed in front of Harry, condensation running down its smooth glass surface. The bottle was tinted green, making it impossible for Harry to discern the colour of the liquid inside.

“Cheers,” Malfoy said, raising his own bottle, and taking a deep draught.

Harry drank deeply as well, coming up spluttering as the bitter liquid reached his tongue. He had expected it to be sweet— the Muggle version of their butterbeer. It couldn’t have been more different.

Finally coming up for air, he realized that Malfoy was laughing at him. Harry flushed with embarrassment.

“You get used to it after a while.”

Another silence settled around them. Once again, Harry could scarcely believe the day’s events. A day ago, would he ever have guessed that he would be drinking beer with Draco Malfoy in a Muggle pub?

No, not by a long shot.

He stole a glance at Malfoy. The latter was taking another deep sip of his beer. Harry was surprised by how…Muggle-like Malfoy looked in the moment, with his jeans and denim jacket. If Harry didn’t know him, it would have been impossible for him to pick Malfoy out from many of the young men that walked the streets of downtown London.

“Potter.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop staring.”

“I wasn’t—“

“Yeah, you were.”

“Fine.”

They continued to drink in silence, Malfoy taking long, deep draughts, and Harry quietly sipping his beer every now and then. He decided that Muggle beer wasn’t all bad, after all.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, after a few minutes.

Harry looked up.

“I know you’re curious. I know you have questions. I know that’s why you agreed to come here with me.”

Harry shook his head slightly, trying to meet Malfoy’s eyes. The truth was, Harry was not even sure why he had agreed to accompany Malfoy. But Malfoy was not paying attention, and Harry was struck by how tired he now looked.

“Can it wait?” Malfoy’s head was bowed, his bottle pressed to his forehead.

When Harry didn’t speak, Malfoy continued. “I promise I’ll answer them all someday.”

“All of them?” Harry said skeptically.

A tiny smile appeared on Malfoy’s face. “Okay, maybe not all of them.”

Harry grinned, clinking his bottle with Malfoy’s and downing the rest of his beer.

“We’re gonna need a lot more beer, aren’t we?”

Finally grinning back, Malfoy rapped his hand on the bar’s surface. “Two more, Seb!”


	9. Burn

**The world of Harry Potter and its characters are owned by J. K. Rowling.**

Chapter 9: Burn

It was a cold and dirty street, trash bins knocked down and scattered on both sides of the pavement. It was a little way before dusk, yet no one would be able to tell because very little light was allowed to permeate into the area by the tall yet broken-down apartment buildings that rose out on either side of the dirty, cobbled road. At first glance, Lawrence Street looked more like an alley than an actual street. Trash bins lay on their sides on the pavement, spilling their contents onto the narrow sidewalk. There was a gloom that hung in the air, making the already dark street look even more miserable than it already did. It was deserted, only the sound of a mouse creeping about could be heard, and what little light that could come out from the windows of the buildings were obscured by dark curtains or newspapers that were put up against the many windows.

A slight _pop_ permeated the air, causing a rat to scurry from its hiding place underneath a cardboard box. If someone was to look out of their window now, what they saw would not have surprised them at all. Two men were walking side by side— or rather, one of them was walking; the other was clearly drunk, his feet dragged on the ground as the dark-haired one struggled to keep him upright long enough to look around him.

Harry turned to the drunken boy beside him. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“Lawrence Street, this is,” drawled Malfoy, half-conscious. He was looking at the ground longingly, as though it was a bed.

Harry took everything in— the dark doorways, the garbage, the rats— and shook his head. “You live here?”

“Yeaaaah.”

One look at Malfoy told Harry that it wasn’t long before the latter passed out and fell asleep. His normally sharp eyes were bloodshot, and his hair looked even more disheveled than it did when Harry first saw him in the dining hall.

“Hey— hey. Don’t you dare pass out or I will leave you right here in the middle of the street,” Harry warned him. An answering groan came from his shoulder where Malfoy had buried his face.

“Which door, Malfoy?”

“There.” Without warning, Malfoy had broken away and had started stumbling towards one of the doors on the far end of the street. Fearing he would slip and break his neck, Harry hurried after him and supported his old schoolmate, again wondering vaguely at what point in his past would he ever have expected to be in this position with his old rival. Finally, Malfoy pointed him to a door on top of six steps. Seizing the handle, Harry opened it to find a narrow foyer with steep rickety stairs that led upward. He sighed. Getting Malfoy up those stairs would be a miracle. He was tempted to pull out his wand, but he felt wary about using too much magic around Malfoy after seeing the latter give up his wand to Yvette. Gritting his teeth, he resolved to begin the long trip up the stairs. Malfoy was looking at him as though he felt sorry for him. Thus, they began their long ascent. Harry was now supporting Malfoy’s dead weight, which seemed to get heavier and heavier the higher up they went. Finally, on the landing of the third floor, Malfoy reached out to knock on the door of Number 3A. Or rather, he pounded it once after which all his strength seemed to run out and so he leaned against the door jamb and started snoring.

Sighing, Harry knocked. It was a few moments before he heard movement coming from within. Footsteps coming toward them. The door had no peephole, and the footsteps stopped right behind the door, as though hesitating. Two beats later, he heard the dead bolt turn and the door open a crack.

He could make out Narcissa Malfoy’s pale, gaunt face from within the dark interior of the flat. Her cheeks were sunken, tendrils of hair hanging haphazardly in front of her face. She did not notice Harry at first, as she was too focused on the image of Draco’s head lolling against the wall. Then her eyes alighted on him, and her eyes widened with rage.

“What have you done with him?” She whispered furiously.

“Nothing!” He took a step back; it looked like she was about to come out and hit him. However, she seemed to think better of it and focused instead on her son, all the while shooting Harry suspicious looks as she shook Draco awake and examined him more closely.

“He’s drunk,” Harry muttered. He thought it best to keep his distance; Narcissa still seemed angry.

Narcissa didn’t reply. Instead, she began to pull her inebriated son into the confines of the dark flat, clearly struggling underneath his weight.

Harry moved forward to help, but she suddenly turned and with nothing but another baleful glance in his direction, she slammed the door in his face.

Then there was silence.

Still slightly disconcerted, it took Harry a while to come to his senses and realize that he was now standing alone in the landing of a strange Muggle building in which his old school rival and his mother was now living, a far cry from their days of splendor.

Shaking his head, Harry hurried down the stairs and out into the air, choking in the stink of garbage and tepid water before ducking into a dark corner and Disapparating.

He emerged right on the edge of the Burrow’s yard, the breeze now warm and fresh. The lights from inside were ablaze, and all the way out here he could already smell the aroma of Molly Weasley’s cooking.

He took a deep steadying breath, glad that he had not drunk as much as Malfoy had. True to what he had promised him, Harry asked him no questions, merely providing his presence as Malfoy downed drink after drink. After the first few bottles of beer, Malfoy had ordered whiskey for both of them. Downing it, Harry was not impressed. Firewhiskey was far better. Malfoy, on the other hand, had drunk glass after glass of it while Harry decided to stick to beer. Harry found that Malfoy did not really need him to speak; and so, he listened quietly while sipping his beer, nodding and clearing his throat at the right times as Malfoy began to get more talkative and more inebriated. He talked about their classmates in Auror training, and what he moves he hoped to try while dueling. There were times when Harry thought he recognized the Malfoy who was his old school rival. And yet, there were also flashes of a new Malfoy—a new kind of life and humility that told Harry that Malfoy had seen much more of the world than he had before.   

In the end, when Harry had had four beers and Malfoy had put his head down onto the bar counter, he had decided to pull the plug and accompany him home. It had taken some difficult maneuvering but by the time he had managed to drag Malfoy to the alley beside the now-full pub, Malfoy was conscious enough to guide him during their Side-Along Apparition to where he lived. Harry did not know what he expected, but the Malfoys living in a Muggle apartment complex was far from it.

He sniffed himself to check traces of alcohol, rolling his eyes as he realized that Malfoy’s stink of beer and whiskey had rubbed off on his shirt. He used his wand to clean himself up, and with that he pushed forward. The gate creaked as he opened it, and he strode purposefully to the back door, with its many boots and shoes scattered around it. He didn’t bother knocking; it was now as much of a home to him as it was to any of the other Weasley children. He reflected sadly that that was not going to be the matter for very long.

He found Molly, Arthur, and Ginny preparing to sit down to dinner in the dining room. He had been so caught up with Malfoy that it had slipped his mind that it was about dinner time.

“Harry! You’re just in time for dinner, dear. Grab a plate, and sit down to dinner,” Mrs. Weasley called from her seat.

“Er, right,” Harry said, resigned as he grabbed a plate from one of the cupboards. He headed to his usual place beside Ginny. She smiled and kissed his cheek as he sat beside her, and began heaping mashed potatoes onto his plate.

“It was a shame you weren’t here last night, Harry dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. “We got your Patronus, but it still would have been wonderful if you were here. We shared some wonderful news with everyone last night.”

“News?” He could see Molly and Arthur both beaming excitedly.

“Fleur’s pregnant!”

“Wow— that’s— that’s wonderful, Mrs. Weasley!” It really was wonderful news, and for a moment he forgot what was looming and let himself feel excitement for Bill and Fleur.

“Yes, she and Bill are so excited! And so are we… our first grandchild!” Molly choked out, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. “We couldn’t be any happier right now, with their news… and your wedding coming up… it’s like things are finally falling into place.”

Harry’s joy at the news dimmed as though a light bulb had just burst.

“Speaking of the wedding,” Ginny said, “I finally managed to book the Weird Sisters!”

She beamed at him.

“R-really?” He stammered.

“Yes! I also managed to convince them to be the live band backing Celestina Warbeck. I figured people would get a kick out of that—the Weird Sisters and Celestina Warbeck playing together.”

She smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her entire face.

Harry looked down onto his plate. This was going to be a long meal.

For the rest of dinner, Ginny animatedly talked about her progress with the wedding plans, and thankfully for Harry, Molly and Arthur were interested enough that they were the ones who prodded their daughter about the other details. All Harry had to do was nod and smile every now and then. The lack of effort to include himself did not go unnoticed by Ginny, who frowned at him whenever he gave a noncommittal shrug.

When the last morsels of pie were cleared away, and the stack of dishes were carried to the sink, Molly and Arthur bid everyone good night and went upstairs to their room. Harry and Ginny were in the kitchen, clearing up the last of the dishes. There were nights when they decided not to clean with magic, finding that washing the dishes or sweeping the floors manually were therapeutic and allowed themselves to clear their minds.

Harry decided to wash the plates tonight, forgoing magic. He could hear Ginny behind him; she was putting the chairs back in their places.

He was drying the dishes when he felt her put her arms around his middle, and she pressed the side of her face against his back.

“I missed you,” she murmured. “Is Hermione alright?”

_“_ Hermione?” Harry’s jumped, feeling guilty though he wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah. In your patronus last night, you said you couldn’t come to dinner because Hermione had an emergency.”

“Right— right, yeah, she did.”

“Is she alright? What happened?”

“Well… she… needed to talk,” Harry said slowly.

“Talk?”

“Yeah.”

Ginny pulled away, and began helping him dry the plates. He could feel her looking at him.

“What did she need to talk about?”

“She…she needed a friend.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? She’s been lonely. Haven’t you noticed that she hasn’t been around for months now?”

“Well, I have… I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have just brought her along if all she needed was a friend. Seeing everyone would have done her a world of good.”

“She didn’t seem to be in the mood to be around other people.”

“And you’re not other people?”

“Well— I’m her best friend. I’m not just ‘other people’.”

“You might be her best friend but the rest of us care about her about as much as you do. You know we consider her family.”

“You do, do you? So why is it that Luna’s your maid of honor and not her?”

Ginny looked away. “Not this again.”

Harry shook his head. Just a little more and it would escalate into a full-blown argument. He knew he hadn’t been entirely truthful; he also knew she was not either. He sighed. They were lying to each other, but it was time to tell the truth.

He allowed himself a few seconds of silence, not speaking until the last dish had been put away. Ginny had backed away and was leaning on the edge of the kitchen table. He turned.

“Would you come outside with me for a bit?”

“Outside? Why?”

“I need to clear my head.”

“Okay, then.” She conceded uncertainly.

And with that, he led the way outside, through the back door and past the scattered boots. Right to the edge of the Burrow’s property, and settled beside the low brick wall that ringed the perimeter of the backyard. He could feel her settle on the wall a little ways to his right.

He studied her profile under the lights flooding from the Burrow’s windows. She looked beautiful— she had always been beautiful. Tonight her hair was pulled back with a headband, though tendrils of her locks still fell in loose curls down her back. She had sharp, intelligent eyes that left people with no doubt that she was so much more than a pretty face—not only was she one of the most celebrated Chasers in the league, but her role in the War as one of the leaders of Dumbledore’s Army had also contributed much to her popularity. Much like at Hogwarts, heads turned when she walked into a room, not only for her beauty and reputation, but also with the easy confidence with which she carried herself. At eighteen, her figure had blossomed into that of a woman’s, kept trim by her Quidditch training. It was no mystery to Harry why many men threw him jealous looks whenever he came to the Holyhead Harpies’ matches and why women seemed to sink into sour moods whenever she was around. That was, before her wit and easygoing personality won them over. There were not many people in Britain’s wizarding population who did not know who she was— Ginny Weasley was almost as much of a household name as Harry Potter was.

He was going to talk to her as calmly as possible, and maybe, after the initial shock, there wouldn’t be too much shouting. He took a deep breath, but before he could speak, Ginny spoke first.

“It’s going to be great, you know.” She said softly. “The carriage, the band, the food…I’ll make sure everything’s going to be perfect.”

“Why?” Harry asked suddenly. This was not how he wanted to start, but he could suddenly feel his temper rising.

She was confused. “What do you mean? Of course I want our wedding to be perfect. It’s the only one we’re ever going to have.”

“No— what I mean is, why does it really have to be this “perfect”, this grand? Why is it necessary to have the fairies? To hire a famous singer? What’s the point?”

“I thought we talked about this, Harry.”

Harry’s felt his voice rising.

“No. We didn’t. You talked and I just gave in. Why is this so important to you? To have all these guests we don’t know? To have such a huge wedding when you know perfectly well that it’s not what I wanted at all?”

 “I just think that it would be nice to provide a good experience for our friends—”

“No, it’s more than that. You’ve been obsessing over this wedding for the past several months now—”

She was also shouting now.

“Why is it so surprising that I care about how beautiful our wedding is going to be? It’s our wedding, for fuck’s sake!”

“Exactly—the last time I checked, two people are needed for a wedding, and not one, so why exactly are my opinions less relevant than yours?”

“Fine.” She yelled. “ _Fine._ If it makes you happy, I’ll cut down the guest list to only three hundred people.”

“No. I’m cancelling the wedding.”

“ _What?”_

“I said I’m cancelling the wedding. I can’t do this anymore.”

There was a loud _thwak_ as she angrily kicked the low wooden gate beside her. Her eyes were blazing.

“You cannot fuck with me like this, Harry.”

“I’m not fucking with you. I’m done.”

“Because I want to invite a lot of people? Are you crazy?”

“No. It’s not about the wedding.”

“ _Then what?”_

If Harry had been angry moments ago, his heart sank now. He hated this.

“Because…because I don’t think getting married is such a good idea anymore.”

She drew in a shaky breath. All the anger that had surrounded them only several moments ago had seemingly dissipated in the night air, leaving only a cloud of shaky uncertainty.

“What?” Ginny said, her eyes wide.

Harry forced himself to look at her. “I don’t want us to get married anymore.”

Ginny slowly slid down onto the ground.

“Alright, so we wait a year or so—”

Harry’s throat was tight.

“I think you misunderstood me, Gin. _I don’t want us to get married anymore.”_

“But why?”

“The truth is, I don’t know, Gin. Something’s changed and I don’t know what it is—”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t even do me the courtesy to tell me the reason why you’re dumping me like this?”

“I really don’t—"

“You’re lying.”

“I— I’m not. I’m so, so sorry, Gin.”

“Save it.” She rose to her feet.

She turned on her heel and started walking back towards the house. About halfway there, she paused and turned back toward him. Her eyes were very bright.

“Just so you know, I only wanted a perfect wedding because when I was little, I didn’t think I would ever get to have one. I don’t think I would ever get to walk the aisle on my dad’s arm in a big, beautiful dress, my mother’s favorite singer in the background. I didn’t think we’d be able to afford to have more than a couple dozen guests. I didn’t think I would be able experience all that, so I avoided thinking about it as much as I could. I avoided those stupid Witch Weekly magazines talking about people’s amazing weddings because I knew I’d only envy them for it. I know I’m not as concerned with these things as many other girls are, but I still wanted it, Harry. I still wanted it, and now that I thought I could actually have it, I tried to make it as beautiful as I could. So I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry I wanted a big, beautiful wedding where people could look at me as I walked down the aisle toward you. I’m sorry I was too caught up by the image of that perfect wedding that I completely ignored you. I’m sorry.”

With that, she whirled around and ran through the door and slammed it behind her. A single sob reached Harry from where he stood. He stayed rooted to the spot for quite a while, steadily feeling worse at the second. No more sound came from the house, and after a while, he slowly walked out the gate and Disapparated.  


End file.
